A study of Sherlock's mishaps
by Laila Space
Summary: A to Z of Sherlock Holmes' injuries. Might be fluffy, angsty, but most certainly h/c. No slash, just friendship. Hurt Sherlock and caring, doctor John. Inspired by SupernaturalBaby4Life's 'A to Z of Tony Stark', an Avengers fic. It's absolutely amazing. Go check it out. Please read and review. N for Nightmares.
1. Abrasion

_Hello, Sherlockians. I have decided to write a series of one shots from the letter A to Z, each letter featuring an injury (which obviously happens to Sherlock). If you have any ideas, prompts or suggestions, review or PM me._

 _The more the reviews, the faster the updates._

 _Hope you enjoy..._

* * *

 **Abrasion.**

The clock was just chiming eight in the morning, when the relative silence was broken by a whining voice.

"Oh God, what new stupidity is this?"

John looked up from the newspaper with a frown.

"What are you watching?", he asked, making his way to where Sherlock was hogging the couch in front of the T.V.

"I don't know. It has some blue things in a forest. And some flying beasts", came Sherlock's reply, as he crossed his arms and scowled at the screen.

"Avatar? That's a fantastic movie. How can you not like that?", John asked incredulously, plopping down next to Sherlock.

Further debate whether the movie was fantastic or not was suspended when a shrill ring cut through the air.

"Boys, you've got a client", Mrs. Hudson's voice drifted upstairs.

Exchanging frankly manic grins (In their defense, they hadn't had a case in days) and switching off the telly, they made their way to their respective armchairs.

There was a knock at the door and a man of about forties entered, apparently let in by their landlady.

"Ah, Good morning. Do sit down", John motioned to the 'client' chair. Sherlock was regarding the man with his usual deducting gaze and John could practically see the cogs turning in that brilliant mind.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I need your help", the man sat down in the chair, wringing his hands nervously.

"Yes. That's obvious. Now, is it murder?", Sherlock asked in his usual ... friendly, way.

"Sherlock!", John said, a little of Captain Watson entering his voice.

"What? No. But, I guess I'd better introduce myself first. My name's Billy Murdock. My wife's Laura. I am working ... "

"You are working as a cab driver, judging by the ID visible in your pocket. You have a boy of less than a year and a five year old girl. You take care of the baby at least every morning and night, judging by the speck of baby food and drool on your left shoulder and you also don't get enough sleep due to the boy crying and waking you in the middle of the night. In the afternoon, while you are out driving, you hire a babysitter for them. Your wife works as a nurse in the hospital near your home. You were engaged in coitus with her this morning, judging by the perfume ... Chanel, hers, that you smell of. So the children were not present. Most probably they had gone to a relative's house for the day. You are obviously happily married. Your ring is well polished. No trouble in the family. No murder. Then why are you here?", Sherlock ranted off in high speed and there was silence for a moment or two when he finished, as Murdock sat in slight shock and strangely, annoyance.

"I must say, Mr. Holmes, you are every bit as good as they tell. And, well, I lied. I am here on a case of murder. Yours".

In the blink of an eye, several things happened simultaneously. John who had seen the gun a split second before Sherlock, tackled his friend to the floor. At the same time, a gunshot sounded and a bullet passed where Sherlock's head had been a few milliseconds ago. Both the detective and the blogger crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs with John on top of Sherlock.

Murdock, however, recovered swiftly and fired another shot at the pair. John and Sherlock dodged in the opposite directions.

With a lunge, the army doctor knocked the client down and kicked the gun away, while Sherlock retrieved John's revolver and pointed it at the client's head.

"Bad idea, Mr. Murdock. You forgot that John here was a soldier. Now, I suggest you talk unless you want him to make you suffer while still keeping you conscious."

* * *

"So basically, he was just looking for more money. Willing to kill you and then disappear with his family to someplace nice", John remarked, with his hands in his pockets, as they watched Lestrade load the criminal onto the police car.

"Yes. Cabbie salary not enough. Obviously he loved his family and would do anything for them. The question is, who wants to kill me?" Turning, Sherlock led the way back to their flat.

"Well, a lot of people do. Hell, sometimes even I do."

Sherlock smirked.

"But then, life would become dull, wouldn't it?"

"Unfortunately, yes", John replied, smiling back.

* * *

"For God's sake, let me look at it. It could get infected. Who knows when the flat was cleaned last."

"Don't be silly John. It's just a slight scratch."

"It's not a scratch. It's a severe abrasion of your skin and it's bleeding considerably. Now, let me look at it."

They were seated at the flat. It had been a quiet ten minutes before John had noticed Sherlock's wince when his arm brushed against the couch seat.

"You alright?", he had asked, running his eyes over Sherlock's posture.

"Of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?", had been Sherlock's instant reply.

"Show me your arms."

Sherlock had looked at him with a hint of fear in his eyes. And quickly replied with a firm 'No'.

"Sherlock ...", John's voice held a warning.

And so after much wrangling, threatening and pleading, they now sat with John eyeing Sherlock's scratched, red arms but unable to tend to it.

"Well, to be honest, if you hadn't tackled me so forcibly, I might not be sitting here with my arms burning."

"Would you have preferred a bullet through your brain?", John asked, smiling venomously.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Anyway, you are in pain. I can help with that."

John fetched his medical bag and withdrew the salve to soothe abraded skin and slight burns.

Snatching Sherlock's arms towards him and ignoring the detective's protest, he cleaned the wounds with a little water and disinfectant, smirking slightly when Sherlock flinched occasionally.

Then, reaching for the tube of salve, he applied the cool cream, raising his eyebrows and smiling smugly at his friend's relieved sigh("Oh, shut up, John"). Finally, he finished by wrapping both arms in a light bandage.

"There, all done. That wasn't so hard, was it?", John asked, patting Sherlock on the shoulder and getting up. "Anyway, I'm gonna take a bath. And you should too. But not right now. I'm not changing your bandages again."

"Bathing. Boring. I'd rather watch Avion", Sherlock scoffed, switching the telly back on.

"It's Avatar. And I know you like it. Ah ah, don't try to deny it. We'll rent it later if you want", John made his way to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and a bath robe (His' or Sherlock's, he didn't know) on the way.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"Um ... well, I ..."

"You're welcome, Sherlock. Don't mention it", John's voice drifted from inside, "And stay out of the bathroom."

The bathroom door slammed shut and Sherlock smiled to himself, turning back to his movie.

He would be lost without his blogger.

* * *

John relaxed as the warm water soothed him. He loved showers. Though his priority was always baths. But he didn't dare to spend more time than necessary away from Sherlock.

God knew what mischief he could get into without him. Explosions, assassination attempts, body parts in the fridge ...

That man was sending him to an early grave.

John smiled.

And he loved every minute of it.

* * *

 _Hope you enjoyed. Please read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	2. Blister

_Hello again. Thank you to all those wonderful people who read, faved, followed and reviewed my story. You honestly made my day. So as a gift, a kind of early chapter._

 _And a special thanks to_ novelteas74 _who added me to her wonderful community. Thank you very much. I am honored._

 _And again please read and review. Suggestions, prompts and opinions are always welcome._

 _Hope you enjoy ..._

* * *

 **Blister**

"Sherlock, will you please stop that?", John asked, exasperated, as he watched Sherlock potter around the flat, occasionally rooting through piles of papers.

No response.

With a sigh, John turned back to his laptop.

"You're just going to fall on your arse in the dark."

"John! I can't survive without electricity. And we will freeze to death, without the heating. It's snowing outside", Sherlock cried, looking for all the world like he was having a mid life crisis.

"We would, if we were outside. Fortunately, we've got a fireplace, which you've obviously forgotten about. We have to strike a match, see? And light up the logs there and ta da, fire! Ingenious, isn't it?"

"Mocking doesn't suit you, John. Do refrain from further attempts at it."

John shook his head, chuckling.

* * *

"Do you know that there are 72 ways to kill a person, bare handed, without becoming the main suspect?"

"..."

"And I know them all. In fact, I have practiced them on you many times... In my mind palace, of course."

"..."

"I know you are just pretending to ignore me. You are not really doing anything in the laptop."

"..."

"John, can we wrestle?"

"..."

"You are hoarding all the blankets."

"..."

"Oh, you're sleeping now. How long have you been sleeping?"

"..."

"When will the electricity come back?"

"..."

"I'm cold."

"..."

"Why is your middle name Hamish?"

"Shut up."

* * *

An hour into the current blackout, Sherlock and John were seated on the floor, as close to the fire as they could.

John was lazily watching the fire, his back against his chair's legs and his own spread before him. And Sherlock sat cross legged, his chin in his hands.

As John switched his gaze from the fire to his friend, he saw that he had his eyes closed and was leaning slowly towards the fire.

"Sherlock!"

"Wha ... yes, the lintel seeds, of course", Sherlock started, muttering under his breath.

"Go to bed, if you're so sleepy, you git", John chided.

"I'm not sleepy. I just ... had to ... go to my mind palace."

John returned to staring into the fire, shaking his head ruefully.

* * *

John awoke with a start, cuddled within his blankets. He winced at the pain in his neck . He had apparently fallen asleep sitting on the floor, with his head on the seat of his chair. He looked down at the detective curled tightly against him and smiled slightly at the sight of him sleeping.

Vaguely he remembered dragging a sleeping Sherlock closer as the fire had died down and the detective had started to shiver.

The heating still hadn't come back on.

With a groan, John started to sit up, displacing the detective in the process. Sherlock slid to the floor and still remained obliviously asleep.

Unfortunately, the previously folded up man, now uncurled and his lanky legs stretched and stretched and to John's horror, landed right on the dying embers.

With a cry, John hurried to drag the detective away before he burnt off his feet. Strangely (Or maybe unsurprisingly, since it was Sherlock Holmes) it was John's shout and not his feet landing on the fire, that woke Sherlock up.

"John ... wha's... whayudoin?"

And then he had leapt up with an yelp, and hopped around, colorful curses and profanities pouring from his mouth.

* * *

"You know that when I sleep, it is the sleep of the dead."

"That doesn't explain how you can sleep through your own leg burning, Sherlock."

"Don't exaggerate, John."

" What if I wasn't there? Jesus, Sherlock. How did you even survive before I came here?"

"I managed quite well, thank you."

John slightly shifted the ice pack on Sherlock's heel. Seeing Sherlock shiver, he adjusted the blanket more securely around his shoulders. Sherlock thanked him with a dirty scowl. John replied with a glare.

The burn was thankfully not too bad. The blister was no bigger than some of Sherlock's other wounds, which he seemed to get on a daily basis due to his chases and experiments. But it was still painful. And it had affected both heels.

"You do realize that this means no walking for at least three days, don't you? Not until the blister disappears", John said warily, quite used to Sherlock's continued insistence that his body did not need rest to heal.

Sherlock looked at John like he had grown a third eye.

He had barely opened his mouth when John continued. "And if you don't rest, then I will knock you unconscious and handcuff you to the window and forbid Lestrade to give you cases for a month. And hide your nicotine patches."

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap.

* * *

"Sherlock, I told you ...", John gritted out, his eyes on Sherlock who was walking on tiptoes around the flat.

"The blisters are nearly healed, John. And anyway, I am resting my heels", Sherlock muttered, not even looking at John.

"Did you put on the burn cream today?"

Sherlock froze.

"Thought as much. Sit down. I'll get it."

Sherlock knew better than to argue. He sat on the couch and placed his feet on the coffee table as he had done for the past two days. John came back with the cream and with gentle fingers spread it liberally on the blisters. At least on what remained of them. As much as he hated to admit it, John knew that Sherlock was right when he said that they were nearly healed.

At most, one more day and he would be back, chasing criminals, creating explosions, playing the violin, insulting people ...

John couldn't wait for it.

"Finished", John declared, closing the pot of cream, with a final rub.

The detective did not grace the declaration with a response, but giggled.

"What's funny?", John asked, confused.

"It tickles", was the response.

Later research that John conducted would have led him to the question why he had not found the ticklish spot on the previous days. But for now ...

"Joh ... n... stop. Please. Ha hee hee. Stop."

*Giggle* *Snort*

"Not a chance, Sherlock Holmes."

"That was one thing useful that came out of you burning your feet."

"Useful? You tortured me."

"Yeah, for future blackmail. And yeah, I may have tortured you. But you enjoyed it."

"Yes, I did, unfortunately."

"I might even let Lestrade in on this little secret."

"Don't you dare, John Watson."

* * *

"So, John told me 'bout your run in with blistered feet", Lestrade's voice drifted over to Sherlock, as he knelt next to the body.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock ignored him.

That was until Lestrade continued.

"Is it true that you have ticklish feet?"

"JOHN!"

A giggle echoed from somewhere.

* * *

 _Hope you enjoyed._

 _Please read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	3. Concussion

_Sorry for the delay, folks. Hope this chapter makes up for it. Please read and review._

 _Enjoy._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._

* * *

The cool wind nipped at John's face as he ran a step behind Sherlock. The moon and the occasional streetlight were the only illumination. Their footsteps slapped loudly on the puddles left by yesterday's rain.

They had been trying to catch another serial killer whose victims appeared to be no younger than 50. Apparently he had developed a grudge against his grandparents at a young age and that had grown into something bigger. If the seven plus, fifty year old bodies in the morgue were anything to go by.

John lost sight of his friend as he and the criminal turned into an alley.

When John turned into the dark alley, he found Sherlock and 'Tom, The Ripper' (Yes, they had spent hours laughing at that one) tussling on the ground. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at the killer. He didn't have a clear shot ... but, the killer didn't know that.

"Let him go and stand up slowly with your hands behind your head. If you co operate, you might go to prison with both your kidneys functioning. If not, you will be missing one", John said, Captain Watson sneaking into his voice.

Apparently the murderer must have seen that he had no choice. That or he had seen John's eyes blaze with cold fury. Either way with a swift pounce he grabbed onto Sherlock's neck tightly and pointed his gun at the detective's head. Classic.

"Wrong move", John growled.

"Don' move or I'll blow 'is 'ead off", Tom cried, a flash of fear and desperation in his eyes.

"You know, you are not the first serial killer or maniac or some cliched villain to threaten us. So you can't frighten us. Now let him go or I. Will. Kill. You", John said slowly and steadily.

"And besides you're out of bullets. You wasted all of them trying to put me off from chasing you", Sherlock remarked casually.

Sure enough as the killer pulled the trigger, an empty click echoed around the empty alley. Sherlock and John grinned.

Realizing that he was defeated Tom slowly put his hands behind his head. Then as if struck by a sudden inspiration, he brought down the gun and struck it down, hard, on Sherlock's head.

The crack that resounded might have made John wince if he hadn't been too busy trying to catch the unconscious detective before he hit the ground. Before lowering him fully to the ground he pointed his gun directly at the running serial killer and pulled the trigger. The murderer went down with a bullet in the back of his left knee. A scream sounded off the close walls of the alley, but John had already turned back to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?", John asked, tapping on his cheek.

Gently running his hand through the dark curls he came across the wound. Blood was slowly seeping. He removed Sherlock's scarf and pressed it against the wound. Sherlock gave a low moan and tried to move his head away.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, open your eyes. Come on now", John urged, cushioning his friend's head with his hand.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered and he moaned again. With continuous urges and insistence from John, he opened his eyes fully. He gulped and John hurriedly turned him onto his side. Sherlock heaved and was soon bringing up everything he had consumed. Finally, after a couple of dry heaves, he collapsed onto his back. He was shuddering visibly, but made an effort to open his eyes.

"Jooohnn? Hurrs. Where's ... him?", he slurred, attempting to sit up.

John helped him upright with a hand on his back.

"Yeah, I know. But don't go to sleep, alright? You've got a concussion", John said, "And he is unconscious with a bloody left leg."

"Di' you shootim?", Sherlock asked, as he was hauled to his feet by John's arm around his waist. He groaned when his head protested against the movement and leaned on John's shoulder to still the spinning alley walls.

"Yes, I did. He'll be oblivious at least for another 15 minutes. We can tell Lestrade after we've reached the hospital", John said, bracing Sherlock up and trying to get the detective to walk.

"Wha'? No, no ... hospitals. 'm no' goin', John", Sherlock protested, attempting to pull away from the doctor.

"But ... Sherlock, you have ... Yeah, alright, fine. No hospitals. We're going home, okay?", he once again pulled the panicking detective closer. He took up the ignored blue scarf and tied it on Sherlock's head, earning another pained moan from the detective.

John quickly phoned Lestrade and gave him the criminal's location. Tightening his grip on Sherlock, John half dragged him forwards.

They had just reached the alley entrance when Sherlock became heavier and his knees buckled alarmingly.

"No, Sherlock. A few more steps, please. Don't sleep now", John patted Sherlock's cheek, his head having come to a rest on John's shoulder.

"Tired. Jusafewmins, John. Please", Sherlock whispered, sagging down further.

"No. We'll get a cab and go home and you can sleep there, alright. Just a few minutes, Sherlock, for me", John urged.

Sherlock answered him with incoherent muttering. But John deemed him awake enough and they stumbled towards the road. Lucky for them, a cab slowed down just then and stopped.

John pushed Sherlock gently inside and followed quickly.

"221 B, Baker Street. As fast as you can", he instructed the driver.

Turning to Sherlock, he found that his friend was too pale and struggling to stay awake. He had squeezed his eyes tightly shut and breathing heavily.

"Few more minutes, Sherlock. Just hold on", John murmured, rubbing Sherlock's arms.

The few minutes it took to get to Baker street seemed to take forever. Sherlock whimpered every time the cab had to go over a speed bump. And all John could do was whisper soothingly and wish for the cab to go faster.

As soon as the cab stopped, John was helping a droopy Sherlock out. After paying the cabbie, he supported Sherlock and they entered the building, after John unlocked the door, one hand keeping Sherlock on his feet. But getting up the stairs was a difficult feat. Mrs. Hudson was out and they couldn't use her flat. So it was up to him to get Sherlock to their living room.

Surprisingly Sherlock seemed to notice his dilemma and carried his own weight a little. He was trembling slightly and looked a bit green in the gills. John kept him muttering and babbling as best as he could. Halfway up the stairs, Sherlock seemed to have lost all his adrenaline and doubled up, John's arm around his waist, the only thing holding him up.

"John ... can't. Head hurs. 'm sleepy", he whispered, his face a pasty white, breaths coming out too fast.

"Sherlock, come on. We're nearly there. Just a few more steps", with a steady stream of encouragements, John coaxed the concussed detective up the final few stairs.

When they finally reached the living room, Sherlock collapsed on the couch and John rushed to get a bowl of water and disinfectant.

Gently he removed the now bloody scarf and was pleased to find that the bleeding had stopped. He quickly but smoothly cleaned the wound and wrapped Sherlock's head in gauze after bandaging the wound snugly. By now Sherlock was shaking visibly from the pain and looked ready to pass out. There had not been a single sound out of him but now he groaned and massaged his head.

John hurried to get some paracetamol for Sherlock.

Soon the detective was fast asleep. John fetched a blanket and covered him up warmly. With a sigh he remembered the questions he had to ask the detective after waking him up every hour. He should probably stop with his name and address, as the detective was almost certainly unaware of the current queen or today's date.

If he survived the tantrums thrown after being woken up continually.

Smiling, he seated himself in the armchair to watch over his best friend.


	4. Dislocation

_Thank you so much for all your reads, reviews, follows and faves._

 _Sorry for the delay, but school's been hectic. I'm looking for prompts for the letter 'E'. So if you have any ideas, please share it with me._

 _As always read and review._

 _And enjoy._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._

* * *

"So, basically they were petty thieves on their first attempt at a larger theft."

"Basically, yes."

It was around six in the evening and Sherlock and John were on their way back home from a small country house about a hundred miles from London. The inhabitants had gone away for a trip and on coming back had found the safe open and the valuables missing. There had been nothing else disturbed and the front door had been open and no footprints visible anywhere.

It was barely a five for Sherlock but John who had been stuck with the bored (and potentially hazardous) detective for a week in the flat, had dragged him out. They had rented a car, which Sherlock was driving (At breakneck speed, of course. John had attempted at slowing him down, but the detective hadn't listened. Thankfully the road appeared deserted except for a rare passing car) and John was holding onto the handle above his head for dear life.

"For the millionth time, could you slow down a bit?", John asked, staring alarmed, as a car whooshed past them.

"For the millionth time, it's perfectly alright. I am an expert driver. Do not insult me, John", Sherlock said, sparing a glance at John.

John just sighed and attempted to relax a little. Maybe Sherlock was right. It was alright. But with Sherlock Holmes ... one never knew.

It happened in a flash, as most things were wont to do when concerning the detective and the blogger.

One moment they were flying through the deserted road and the next moment the road curved and a car approached too close from the opposite direction. Sherlock twisted the wheel hard to avoid crashing and their car turned and plummeted into the forest on the right.

Branches whipped and several cracks sounded against the windshield and the tires tore through the rutted mud. Finally with a crash the car jerked to a stop against a tree. The airbags popped open, cushioning both Sherlock and John's head as the momentum sent them forward forcefully. It all lasted less than 30 seconds.

John recovered first, dazed and in slight shock. It was not a serious accident as they had not crashed too far and could still see the road. The other car was nowhere in sight, the driver probably having no idea of the crash since the bend would have hidden the road.

A movement from Sherlock directed his attention back to his friend. The detective stirred slightly and raised his head from where it was resting on the airbag, both his hands still on the steering wheel. Blearily he looked at John and shook his head slightly.

"You alright?", John asked, eyes roving over Sherlock as he searched for injuries. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of Sherlock's left shoulder.

"Sher ...", he tried to warn, but it was too late. Sherlock moved his hands from the steering wheel to unbuckle his seat belt. The next moment he just barely muffled a scream into a strangled cry as his dislocated shoulder flared up with pain which he had failed to notice until then.

"Hey, hey, stop moving. It's okay. It's okay", John cried, alarmed as the blood drained from the detective's face. He automatically unbuckled his seat belt and moved to support Sherlock who was listing to his side, the belt still around him the only thing holding him upright.

Sherlock had his eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallowly through gritted teeth. Vaguely, beyond the pain, he could hear John telling him to take deep breaths and he struggled to obey. Slowly the pain receded to a dull throbbing.

Sherlock opened his eyes and met John's concerned ones.

"'m alright", he whispered.

"Like hell you are. You have a bloody dislocation. Probably because the force of the steering wheel wrenched your arm out of the socket. Which is, incidentally, because you refused to slow the bloody car down", John practically yelled.

Sherlock had the grace to look guilty (at least slightly).

John sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"I'm sorry I yelled, but to be fair, you deserved it. Anyway we have to get out of the car. I need to set your arm and we should call someone. No use being sitting ducks in an useless car", John said, opening his door and stepping out.

Sherlock had blanched at the mention of setting his arm and he now watched John with apprehensive eyes as the doctor made his way around the back of the car and opened his door. The cool air that drifted in caused Sherlock to shiver slightly. Holding his injured arm close to his side and taking the utmost care not to jostle it, he took John's offered hand and climbed out of the car.

Once Sherlock was on his feet beside the car, John reached into the car and brought out one of their torches and his first aid kit, which he always carried as Sherlock had the tendency to attract danger wherever they were going. Like now, for instance.

He coaxed Sherlock to sit against a tree and knelt down next to him.

"Ready?"

"Is it really necessary to do this? I can manage it as it is. There is no need to waste your doctoring skills on me, John. Besides, the light isn't sufficient. You will not be ..."

"Sherlock. Look at me." John cut off Sherlock's blabbering.

Green blue eyes met brown. John could see the hesitancy in those vulnerable eyes.

"You'll be okay. Trust me."

John looked steadily into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock gulped and nodded.

"On three then. One, two ...", without waiting for Sherlock's reply John pulled the injured arm out and thrust upward.

On John's pull, Sherlock let out a guttural scream, a few tears of pain escaping him. He squeezed his eyes shut. Black spots swam and mixed with orange. He couldn't hear anything except the sound of his own shallow breaths. He couldn't feel anything except the cold. He shivered.

"... erlo... en you ... eyes. Come on, please. It's over. It's all over", John's voice drifted into his haze.

Sherlock gave a quiet moan and opened his eyes to find a worried John looking at him.

"Alright?", John asked, sweeping away Sherlock's sweat soaked curls.

Sherlock nodded slightly. In truth, he was feeling better and was feeling ashamed with his display of weakness. So pathetic. Crying and screaming over a simple dislocation. Now John would think him weak ...

"Sherlock ..."

The detective looked up.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of. I have seen men wail at lesser injuries than yours. You were very brave to let me set it without pain medication. You are not weak, understand?", John said gently, a hand clasped onto Sherlock's uninjured shoulder.

Surprised, Sherlock looked up at the understanding in John's eyes. Had he spoken out loud? No, no ... he was sure of that. He was amazed how John could read him like a book.

But then again, they had never needed words before.

He smiled hesitantly at John's gentle smile.

With a grunt, Sherlock stood up with John's help and they made their way back to the road.

It was time to call Lestrade and ask them to send a car to take them home.


	5. Electrocution

_Hi guys. First of all I want to thank you for all your reads, reviews, follows and faves. They are the greatest love and support you can offer and you are the only reason I keep writing._

 _Thank you to Sandra67, RoseCentury, LuvFiction Xxxx and Moonunit for all your reviews and your prompts._

 _And thank you to Bkpeake. Since you are a guest I can't PM you. But thank you so much for your reviews and prompts._

 _Thankyou also to novelteas74 and RoseCentury for adding me to their communities._

 _As for the prompts, wonderful as they were, I didn't choose them. I went on a more classic route. Maybe I'll use those prompts and write a sequel after I complete this story : ) Thank you so much and sorry that I didn'tuse them._

 _And lastly, hope you enjoy..._

 _Read and review, please, dearies._

* * *

It was around eight at night and London was receding to her nightly routine. The tedious life went on everywhere even at 221B, Baker Street.

That is to say, John was blogging and Sherlock was knee deep (literally) in his experiments.

Posting his blog, John got up and stretched, making his way to the kitchen, crossing the detective who was standing in the midst of a clump of wires. Red, blue, green, yellow wires were lying tangled up with each other. Sherlock paid it no mind, fiddling with a single red wire connected to a plug. He seemed to be figuring out a way to get out of the mess and connecting them to the switchboard.

"Sherlock, do you want a cup of tea?", John inquired, putting the kettle on the stove.

"Mh", came the response.

Taking that as a yes, John took out two cups. As he set about the calming task of brewing tea, he mused on his ... well, his Sherlock. He blushed slightly as the thought was considerably less platonic. They were friends, best friends, sure. He was certain there was nothing romantic between them. But sometimes he wondered why two such broken, scarred men had just ... clicked. What would have happened if they had not met? He shuddered at the thought. If he didn't have Sherlock, if something ever happened to him ... No, he wouldn't let that happen. Not to his better half, his other half, his ... soulmate, if he wanted to sound cheesy.

A ring from his phone interrupted his musings.

Damn, he had left his phone in his bedroom. Quickly he made his way to his room, taking the stairs two at a time.

Finally reaching his room, he pressed the accept on his phone.

"Hello. Oh, hey... yeah...", with the phone pressed to his ear, the doctor walked down to the living room. His mind half on the caller, who turned out to be Sarah informing him that he needn't come to the surgery tomorrow, John walked back to the kitchen past Sherlock who was just about to plug in his wires.

"Thanks, Sarah. See you. Bye", he dropped the phone onto the table, near the bowl of vinegar and intestines and gathering the cups of suitably hot tea, trotted back to his armchair, just as a dramatic _ZAP_ sounded and the whole room was plunged into darkness. John blinked a few times for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"Sherlock", he called, alarmed, backtracking towards the kitchen and switching the cups of tea for his phone, hastily switched on his torch.

The beam lit up the living room and John barely needed to search before he found a lump lying on the exact spot where Sherlock had been standing a few seconds ago. Suddenly the wires, the zap and the darkness pieced together and John reached to a dreadful conclusion.

He didn't want to believe it ... but... no, not Sherlock. Please, God. Please ... just not ... electrocuted. Shocked. Oh God ...

Falling on his knees beside the still figure, John gently ran skilled hands over the detective's back and neck, rapidly checked for injuries. Thanking God for small mercies when he found no broken bones, he quickly turned Sherlock onto his back. Pressing his fingers to his carotid artery and his wrist at the same time, John choked at the thready pulse he found there.

Arrhythmia setting in. Not breathing.

Doctor Watson took over. Dialing 999, he updated them on the situation. Placing his mobile near Sherlock's head for better light, he palpated his throat and released a sigh of relief when he found no swelling.

Taking a deep breath, he sealed his lips over Sherlock's, blowing in two breaths, watching his chest rise and fall. He moved closer to Sherlock's chest and with interlocked hands started chest compression. He had just started over again, panic slowly making it's way out, when Sherlock let out a slight cough, gasped and then started coughing again with earnest. Carefully sitting him up, John rubbed his back waiting for Sherlock to get his breath back.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered, but never opened. He gave a small groan.

"Sherlock. Can you open your eyes? Please." John swept back the raven black curls from the half reclining man's forehead.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered again, and this time opened a slit.

"...hnn", came the moaning reply. Sherlock twitched and shuddered, pain written in every crevice of his face.

"Sshh, it's okay. What hurts, Sherlock?", John asked gently, intertwining their fingers. Sherlock gripped his hand so tight that John suspected he had broken his fingers.

"Head ... ches' ... ev'ry thin'", Sherlock replied, slurring the words, that John had difficulty interpreting them.

John grew alarmed as Sherlock lost what little color he had and within the next minute was convulsing violently on the floor.

"Sherlock!", John cried out in panic. Forcing himself to calm down, he moved the detective to the recovery position, cradling his head.

In a few seconds the fit had passed but his pulse was racing out of control and he was trembling. Grabbing every cushion he could, John piled them on the floor and raised Sherlock's feet onto them. The detective's face changed from almost translucent to slightly less pale. Just when John was once again on the verge of a breakdown, the pulse beneath his hands slowing down, the sound of sirens reached him and in a few moments he found himself off to one side, watching paramedics load Sherlock on a gurney.

He followed them down. The medics only had to look into his eyes before they allowed John to climb onto the back of the ambulance. In a rush of sirens and flashing lights, the ambulance sped away.

* * *

 _"We're losing him."_

 _"Shocking."_

 _"Come on, Sherlock."_

 _"Shocking."_

 _" ... Please."_

 _"Shocking."_

 _"SHERLOCK!"_

 _Beep...beep...beep._

* * *

Never had he heard such a sweet sound. A simple, monotonous, continuous beeping. A sign that a hear still beat. The heart that belonged to his best friend. If that heart stopped, so would his'.

And so, John Watson slept, the lullaby soothing and relaxing him, a pale hand held tightly between his trembling ones.

* * *

 _Never had he heard such an irritating sound. A simple, monotonous, continuous beeping._

 _Had he left the alarm on? And why did he feel so achy?_

 _Where was John?_

 _The beeping was slowly accelerating._

 _Yes, alright, alright. He was waking up ... wasn't he?_

 _A warm hand was gripping his cold one and he squeezed to see if the owner would react._

 _He did._

 _"Sherlock?"_

 _He wanted to respond._

 _"Sshh, it's alright. It's me, John. It's okay. Sleep. I'll be here."_

 _He opened his eyes a fraction._

 _Warm smile and warm brown eyes._

 _Satisfied, he slept._

* * *

 _Um, I'm confused. Should I end it here and move on to F or write up a part two. This seems to be missing something ... Anyway let me know how you feel. I'm not really satisfied with this chapter._

 _Please read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._

P.S: F is for f ... nope, no spoilers ; )


	6. Fracture

_Hi guys, this chapter is somewhat boring as there is not much of any hurt!Sherlock. Or rather, not much comfort. But still, opinions and suggestions are always welcome._

 _Thank you, as always, for all your reads, reviews, faves, and follows._ _And thank you Paula for your review. I couldn't PM you._

 _Also, folks, don't forget to read and review this chapter._

 _Hope you enjoy._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._

* * *

They were being chased. Not by the police as they usually were, when Lestrade sent a couple of cops on their heels if they were being particularly annoying by stealing his badges and cold case files. No, it certainly wasn't Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson(Which had also happened on more occasions than one) or random strangers Sherlock had insulted.

No. It was one of the criminal classes. Not the lowly ones with the pocket knives who stabbed them in places that didn't even hurt. These were monsters of the highest level. People with light but frighteningly efficient revolvers that could kill from a range of a even five hundred feet. Dangerous people.

But then Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had always had a sort of magnetism for that sort of thing. Things that made the heart pound and adrenaline to rush through veins. They tried to avoid them, sometimes. And the dullness would last for but a few days. And they would always go in search of adventure again. Such were their lives.

In this instance, however, they were cursing the criminals, cops, Scotland Yard, London, England, murder ... the world in general. Well, at least John was. Sherlock on the other hand, was casting his eyes and mind around in search of alternate routes of escape. Desperately.

Unsurprisingly, he turned up with nothing.

They were near some kind of nature trail near the house where they had sneaked in to investigate. On either side grew tall trees that were spaced so far from each other that they provided practically no cover. Still, it was their best bet.

"John!", Sherlock called, turning rapidly into the trees to his right. Vaguely he could hear the criminals' footsteps crackling over his and John's. Leaves and rotten branches crunched beneath their feet. John was barely a step behind Sherlock. The new promise of cover gave him a fresh surge of adrenaline and soon he was running neck to neck with Sherlock, their hands grasped tightly within each others'.

Sherlock looked back to see the criminals' faces still slightly far off. They couldn't run for long. No place to hide. The forest seemed endless. Can't double back. Can't hide ... unless... The tree a hundred meters ahead looked like a Banyan tree. But ... No, it was the only way.

"Joh ... John. Tree." Sherlock gestured ahead, gasping heavily for breath.

John being quick to grasp Sherlock's somewhat muddled message, nodded.

Assessing the pros and cons quickly, Sherlock estimated that they had about 43 seconds in which they would be hidden from the men's sight. 17 seconds to reach the tree, 8 to scale to the hollowed out branch, 3 to hide themselves sufficiently and 15 seconds to spare.

With a new burst of speed, they broke through the trees and reached the Banyan. With a large jump they caught hold of a branch each (Luckily at their first try) and swung themselves up. John landed nimbly on the larger branch and bent down to help Sherlock.

Maybe it was because of some wrong move on his part or perhaps his branch was just weak, but at the same time Sherlock heard a sharp crack and the branch he had grasped broke and he hit the few meters to the ground awkwardly. Another crack sounded and this time a white hot pain lanced through his right leg and the detective barely managed to stifle a scream. Hazily he could make out John's alarmed eyes from the branch he had initially planned on hiding in.

23 ... 24 his mind automatically counted down. With the last of his energy and willpower he got up and reached up. John who was already on the verge of climbing back down, nodded and reached down as best as he could. With both his legs hooked onto a sturdy branch, he swung upside down and grabbing Sherlock under the arms, hoisted him with every ounce of strength he had left in him.

Sherlock helped him as best as he could by holding onto the branch above him and pushing up with his uninjured leg.

The fractured leg scraped on the trunk and Sherlock bit his lip hard, even his uninjured leg giving up their struggle. John nearly dropped him but managed to hold on, pulling the younger man to sit on a branch just below the one he was hanging off of.

36 ... 37...

There was no way they were going to make it to the hollowed branch, Sherlock mused through the fog that seemed to fill his head.

But John, clever John, had chosen a surprisingly strong branch to place Sherlock. Within a moment he had jumped from his higher place and grasping the thickly leafed branches around them, pulled them closer so that they created a sort of shelter around the two.

43 ...

Just as he had analyzed, the criminals arrived at the tree and proceeded to run past them. Still, about a minute passed before John let go of the branches and turned to Sherlock who smiled faintly at him. Sherlock was seated awkwardly, half leaning against the tree and half bent forward, his legs hanging down painfully.

Maneuvering carefully around the branch, John swung lithely and hanging for a moment, dropped down onto the ground. He made his way carefully around the nearby trees and was relieved when he found absolutely no trace of the men.

He hurried back to the tree and climbed to the branch in which Sherlock was seated. He was in the same position he had left him, but with his eyes closed.

"Sherlock", he called gently, smiling when his eyes fluttered open and met his'.

"Do you think you can get down? They are gone. It's safe."

Sherlock looked down and gulped. But he nodded.

Gently and with the utmost carefulness, John helped Sherlock down the tree. By the time, they were standing on steady ground the detective was pale and trembling and looked vaguely green.

Coaxing Sherlock to sit on the ground, John rolled up his pants to get a good look at the injury.

Shit, was John's first thought. Open fracture. The bone had pierced through the skin just below the knee and blood was still seeping through. Sherlock's black pants had hidden the red of the blood and soaked up most of it.

Sherlock had paled even further. John was awed that he had even been able to refrain from screaming when he had broken it. Sure, he had scaled the tree and got down it with a lot of help from John and using only his uninjured leg ... but, still ...

"Sherlock ... I have to ..."

"I know. Do it."

With a nod and a look towards Sherlock's closed eyes, John quickly grasped above the knee and his shin and pulled. The crack that sounded was drowned by Sherlock's strangled scream.

"I'm sorry. I'm so ... it's okay. It's over, Sherlock. You're good. You're ... it's okay."

He might as well have been talking to himself as Sherlock appeared to have lost consciousness. His worry was considerably lessened when Sherlock's pulse seemed steady, only slightly faster.

With a sigh, he gently lay Sherlock down, with that brilliant head on his lap and called Lestrade.

The only good thing out of this misfortune was that the DI had a good laugh (After confirming that Sherlock would be alright, of course) out of John hanging on the branches like a monkey and Sherlock having to be rescued like a cat stuck on a tree.


	7. Gunshot

_I am so very sorry for the long delay, guys. The past month was absolutely hectic and I hardly had any time to relax._

 _No one reviewed the last chapter and I was slightly discouraged. Maybe I'll edit that again._

 _And be on the lookout for one - shot sequels for some chapters : )_

 _I hope you like this chapter._

 _And please, please read and review this chapter._

 _Thank you, as always, to all those who read, reviewed, followed and faved my story._

* * *

Dusk had fallen on London. The city slowly falling into a lulled state. However, a few people still sat holding hands or walking, in the park, out for a last whiff of the cold night air.

Amongst these, one pair stood out. A tall, dramatically coated man and a shorter, warmly clad man. They weren't a couple as everyone seemed to think (But they didn't care what people thought, anyway). They were friends. Best friends.

Now they sat on a bench, for all appearances looking to be enjoying London. But a closer look revealed the look of thunder on the brow of the shorter man and the childish pout which seemed out of place in the taller man's face.

"I tell you and tell you to keep your mouth shut when the other man is holding a gun. He could have shot you, Sherlock. If you hadn't so foolishly went so close to him and become his hostage, Lestrade and his men wouldn't have been forced to let him escape. It could take days to track him down. And in that time he would easily come back and finish his job. Finish you", the shorter man yelled, getting looks of alarm from others in the park.

"Oh, do stop shouting, John. I would like to see him try to kill me. He is too much of a coward to come out of wherever he is hiding right now. Besides, I have you, don't I?", the man called Sherlock countered.

John sighed with frustration, rubbing a palm over his face. He looked at Sherlock. _The bastard was smiling!_

He couldn't help it. He smiled too. What twisted lives they led.

Standing up, he asked,"You up for a walk?"

Sherlock nodded and got up, both men easily falling into a comfortable pace.

The park was slowly becoming empty, the people going home. An hour passed and Sherlock and John were the only people left.

"Time to go home, do you think?", John looked towards Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear. He had stopped on his tracks, his eyes fixed on the large bush opposite them.

"Sherlock?", John asked, concerned.

Just then a rustle sounded, followed by a soft _ffftt._

John had had too much experience to not recognize a gun shot with a silencer. A figure leaped from the shadows and ran away. He was about to follow him, when a cold hand latched onto his wrist.

Looking up he perceived Sherlock still looking at the bush, but with an odd expression of surprise. Slowly, he looked down, down at Sherlock's coat. Realization hit at the same moment Sherlock swayed.

"John?", he whispered, confused, sinking to his knees.

"Oh God. Shit. Sherlock, Sherlock ... look at me. Okay, lie ... lie down", with panicked movements John caught Sherlock and lay him down.

Hurriedly he unbuttoned the detective's coat and blazer. The white shirt confirmed his fear, by not being white any longer. Blood had soaked through. A lot of it.

Tearing it open, John quickly surveyed the wound. Hit in the abdomen. Lost about a pint already.

Shock.

A moan cut through his thoughts. Sherlock's eyes were fluttering.

"Sherlock. No, stay awake. Sherlock, please."

Untying the blue scarf, he pushed it hard against the wound. The bullet was in too deep to slow the blood flow.

Sherlock cried out, his hands trying to push away John's.

"John ... pl...please stop. Hurts." He whimpered, a tear escaping his dilated eyes.

"Hang on, Sherlock. Hang on."

With fumbling, blood soaked hands John managed to pull out his phone. Rapidly calling the emergency service, he told them about Sherlock's injury.

Throwing it beside him, and he turned back fully to Sherlock.

He was watching him with half open eyes. His breathing was ragged and he was white, absolutely white.

"You're going to be alright, Sherlock. You understand?" John attempted a weak smile.

Sherlock let out a groan and tried to curl up on himself. John stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, whispering soothingly. By now, the bleeding had slowed down, considerably. But not before Sherlock had lost an alarming amount of it.

Pushing slightly harder against the wound, John ran his hand through the sweat soaked raven curls. Sherlock opened his eyes a bit further and met John's worried ones. He choked on John's name before losing his battle with consciousness.

The sirens were the most wonderful sounds John had heard.

* * *

 _There was pain, yes._

 _But there was also John._

 _So it didn't matter._

 _Sherlock let go._

* * *

" ... and also coded on the way here. Bloody hell! When am I ever going to stop worrying about you?"

John mused that it was probably useless to speak to a sleeping (unconscious) person, but he couldn't help it.

"I ... you probably wouldn't understand, but I really care about you, Sherlock. You may be the most rude and arrogant git in the whole world, but you are also the one person who matter the world to me."

John exhaled and closed his eyes to prevent the tears from falling. Always the soldier.

* * *

The world temporarily blinded him when he opened his eyes. White was all he could see. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the hospital room around him.

A gust of air blew on his cheek and he turned his head only to have a very close view of John's nose and his slightly open mouth.

Shifting a bit back in alarm, he took in his friend's four day stubble and the slight frown on his forehead.

Worried, then.

He was going to get an earful when John woke up.

But until then he was going to enjoy John's presence and his warmth and the morphine pumping through his veins.

So Sherlock slept.

* * *

Greg Lestrade stopped the nurse from rushing into the room in panic.

"No, it's alright. They'll be fine. Best to leave them to it."

"But, sir, he could hurt him. He looks like he's about to kill him", the nurse cried, looking at Lestrade with desperate eyes.

"Yeah, I know it looks bad, but John knows what he's doing. He's a doctor himself. And God knows Sherlock deserves a good dressing down", Greg replied, turning away from the doorway, within which ensued yells, protests and chokes.

 ** _"You absolute moronic, idiotic, damned bastard. Do you know what it felt like? Do you have any idea what I ..."_**

"Like I said. Best leave 'em alone."

* * *

 _Hope you enjoyed._

 _Please read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	8. Hypothermia

_An early update. A longer chapter._

 _Please read and review._

 _And also thank you very much to Sandrina67 and LuvFictionXxxx. I couldn't PM you, but thank you for your reviews. They really encouraged me._

 _And thank you to all the people who read, reviewed, faved and followed my story._

 _Enjoy ..._

* * *

Three days. It had been three whole days since the Baker street boys had a case.

73 hours and twenty six minutes. Of which John had spent almost fifty hours listening to Sherlock complain, moan, rage, rant and do every known action possible to drive a human being insane. Because they were stuck inside the flat owing to a snowstorm which had chosen to appear for the first time in nineteen years. And they had no means of contacting anyone, let alone go outside.

Now John was fervently willing the snowfall to stop, looking out the window, his breath frosting the pane. However, his skills did not extend to the skies and the snow continued on.

"John. I. Have. To. Get. Out. My brain is rusting. It is trying to escape my skull. I want work. I want a case. John, now."

John looked cautiously around at the detective who was lying on the floor with his legs resting on the couch seat. Ignoring the silly position, John retrieved the kettle of tea from the stove and proceeded to pour two cups of tea.

Sherlock peeked from beneath the mound of blankets he was wrapped in (That John insisted he be wrapped in). He scowled spectacularly at his blogger and attempted to snag John's trouser's leg. Neatly sidestepping Sherlock's hands, John seated himself beside Sherlock's legs and placed Sherlock's cup on the table.

Sherlock ignored the cup and instead looked out the window. He sighed when he caught sight of the snow drifting down.

"If you are just gonna sulk all day, I'd as well go take a bath. Try not to burn down the flat, eh?" John slumped off, after finishing his tea, leaving an unresponsive Sherlock behind.

* * *

John groaned in pleasure as he sank deeper into the hot water. He had placed scented candles in strategic places and he was utterly relaxed.

Sherlock was sulking, he was bathing. All was right in the world.

* * *

John toweled his hair vigorously, dressed in the most coziest clothes he could find.

"Sherlock, do you want some dinner? I could cook up some pasta."

No reply.

John sighed and dropping the towel on a chair, proceeded to pick his way to the kitchen.

On the way, he perceived the lump of blankets that Sherlock had been wrapped in.

Frowning a bit to himself, John walked to the couch.

Empty.

Confused, he called, "Sherlock! Where are you? If you have gone to bed without having dinner again, I'm gonna punch you."

No answer.

Slightly panicking, he trotted to Sherlock's bedroom, then his', until he had searched the whole flat.

Mrs. Hudson had gone on a trip to Rome with her reading club and so he checked her flat too.

Empty.

He even checked the deserted 221 C.

Only then did he notice the missing coat and scarf and the slightly open front door.

"Shit."

* * *

John Watson was known for his efficient work in the battlefield. He remained calm and controlled and always knew what to do.

Unfortunately, he had not experienced the fear of having a dick of a friend going out into a snowstorm, which blew at minus temperatures, wearing clothes suited for cool climates.

And so, yeah, he was panicking.

There were no cabs, ambulances would take hours to get here and even Greg was away on a vacation with his family.

So John bundled himself in every clothing he could find and after flinging half a dozen blankets and plenty of woolen clothes into a plastic bag, was out the door in under five minutes.

* * *

Cold. Boy, was it cold. Bitter, biting cold that slapped every inch of uncovered skin.

John could only hope that Sherlock hadn't been outside long and that he hadn't gone too far.

He was just wondering which way to go, when he found the deep tracks on his right. They were rapidly filling again with snow, but they gave him enough of a clue of Sherlock's trail.

Trudging through the snow took time and slowed him down considerably. Even with John's snow boots.

God knew what Sherlock was wearing.

Heaven help him, if John found him wearing only his socks.

* * *

Thirteen minutes.

Thirteen minutes was all it took for John to find Sherlock.

Thirteen minutes in which he was beginning to shiver lightly from the cold, heart fluttering in unspoken panic as he searched desperately for his best friend.

The momentary relief was soon replaced again by panic, which quickly doubled when he realized that Sherlock was unconscious.

Fastening his pace as best as he could, he fell to his knees beside Sherlock.

The detective seemed to have fallen and was lying half on the snow covered pavement and half on the snow filled road. Fortunately, the icy fluff had given him a soft landing. Unfortunately, it had seeped through the coat and the pant and thin shirt that Sherlock was wearing and had rendered Sherlock cold and moderately hypothermic.

Thankfully, he was wearing shoes.

And he was also not shivering.

Doctor Watson of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers replaced John and the doctor quickly checked Sherlock's pulse and breathing.

Thank God for small mercies, Sherlock was breathing at least shallowly and his pulse was steady albeit a little weak. But that was to be expected.

Gently he turned the detective onto his back and landed a solid slap on his cheek.

"Sherlock, open your eyes for me."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered and half opened, only to slip closed again.

"No, no, Sherlock. Stay awake", John urged, maneuvering Sherlock into a sitting position.

Sherlock groaned and struggled to open his eyes.

"Cold, John", he bit out, giving a violent shudder.

"Shh, I know. But we'll get you warm soon, alright? Just stay with me. Do you think you can stand up?", John asked, one hand supporting Sherlock and the other shaking out blankets to cover him.

"Hmm ... wha'. J'hn, cold", Sherlock mumbled.

"I know. But we're gonna stand up now, 'k?"

Smothering his panic, John gently hoisted Sherlock onto his feet.

Sherlock swayed dizzily and before John could react, fell on all fours and retched violently, bringing forth bile and saliva.

John rubbed his back and kept a firm hand on his chest to support the cold detective.

Sherlock collapsed onto his heels and hung his head, clutching the blankets closer. He was starting to shiver.

"Finished?", John asked.

At Sherlock's nod, he pulled a scarf onto the curly head and another on top of it. He fastened a pair of gloves onto the slightly blue hands and again hoisted him onto his feet.

This time keeping a firm hold on his friend, John snatched up the considerably lighter bag and turned towards Baker Street.

"Come on, Sherlock. A few more minutes, then we can get you warm. Help me out here", John gasped, as he supported nearly the whole weight of Sherlock.

Sherlock moaned, but straightened just a little bit and placed a foot forward.

It was painfully slow going, but they somehow made it to the door of 221 B. By this time, Sherlock was trembling not just from the cold, but from fatigue as well. His eyes and mouth half open, he struggled to inhale, his face as pale as the snow.

John half dragged Sherlock in and shut the door firmly. It was a hell lot warmer.

He groaned at the thought of the stairs.

"Oh, sod this", he muttered and redirected their way to Mrs. Hudson's flat instead.

He was sure that she wouldn't mind.

John gently pushed Sherlock onto their landlady's couch and rushed to heat up some towels and turn up the heating.

He ran upstairs and grabbed a few of Sherlock's clothes and his favorite duvet, before rushing downstairs.

The doctor removed Sherlock's clothes and shoes, the detective lolling in a half awake state, being utterly unhelpful, and wiped him as thoroughly as he could.

With great difficulty and not a few curses towards the lanky man, John managed to bundle up the pale detective into his clothes and wrapped him up with a couple of the warm towels. A little pink had returned to Sherlock's face and his hands were not too blue.

Just to be safe, he pulled a pair of socks on Sherlock's feet, before proceeding to towel his hair dry.

By now, the detective was almost fully lucid.

Once his hair was sufficiently dry and had curled back up, John went towards the kitchen and put on a kettle of tea.

He returned and took a chair opposite Sherlock, who looked up.

John was beginning to feel his anger rising at the stupidity of his friend, and he was preparing to give Sherlock a good rant, when Sherlock spoke.

"'m sorry."

John's mouth fell open and he stared at Sherlock. For half a moment he was tempted to check if Sherlock had a fever.

"I was bored an' cooped up. I wan'ed to get out. 'm sorry I worried you" Sherlock continued, with his head down.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and slowly looked up at John.

The doctor looked half confused, worry and anger still lurking in his eyes. But he finally smiled.

"Tea?", John asked.

Sherlock smiled and nodded.

* * *

 _Hope you enjoyed._

 _Please read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	9. Insomnia

_Hello. This chapter doesn't have much hurt, but it has slight angst, so I'm warning you. Possible triggers. It also has lots of fluffy comfort._

 _A trillion thanks to Sandra67 who has been most helpful in providing prompts and ideas. Thank you very much Sandra. You go girl!_

 _Thank you also to a Guest who reviewed this. And to all other readers, reviewers, faves, and followers. I couldn't have done it without all of you._

 _Btw, check out my short sequel to the 3rd chapter, concussion, of this story. It is called "Heavy heads, light hearts"._

 _So, read and review, me hearties._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._

* * *

It was 2 am in the morning and all was quiet as London remained dead to the world.

All except 221 B Baker Street, as Sherlock Holmes paced a hole in the floor, occasionally ruffling his hair. His fingers itched for his violin and his mind for a case. But his bloodshot eyes told a different story altogether.

It had been sixty hours since Sherlock had gotten a proper night's sleep.

For once he really did want to get some sleep. But his mind ... oh, his mind! How it raged. Ever running, thoughts chasing their own tails, decisions, opinions, deductions, comments all screaming inside his head. Loose threads nagging, solved cases needing to be analysed again, unsolved ones dancing in front of his mind's eyes. It was tearing itself apart.

"You know, most people just take a sleeping pill", came John's voice from behind his tea. John had been woken by Sherlock's thunderings and he had been trying to get Sherlock to bed for the past two hours.

God, sometimes he felt just like a parent with a highly intelligent kid!

"I've developed a tolerance", Sherlock said, not slowing in his pacing.

"Of course you have", John muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, then stopped as his movement mirrored Sherlock's. Damn, Sherlock was rubbing off on him.

He wandered off to the kitchen to fetch another cup of tea for himself and one for Sherlock.

Sherlock flopped onto the couch. He looked towards the kitchen and mused at the sounds of John making tea. He wondered why John was here with him when he could rather be sleeping the night. 'Sentiment' echoed John's voice in his head. He shook his head and laid down on the couch.

"Here you go", John's hand appeared in his eyesight holding a cup of tea.

John lifted his legs from the couch and sat down before propping them on his own lap. They passed a few minutes in a comfortable silence, sipping their warm drinks.

"John".

"Hmm?"

"Can we play Cluedo?"

"Nope".

"Shall we go to the Yard? Or better yet Lestrade's house?"

"Nope".

"Oh, for God's sake, John. Come on!"

Sherlock made to get up, but since his legs were still on John's lap, he let out an ungraceful yelp as they were pinched hard.

"Sherlock Holmes, we are not going to go traipsing around to Greg's house at two in the bloody morning just to see if he has got a case for you", John said, a finger pointed at the detective's scowling face.

With a scoff, Sherlock fell back against the couch.

A few seconds passed before...

"Well, what about ..."

"Nope".

"But I'm bored. I can't sleep. Why aren't you sleeping by the way?"

"Because, Sherlock, someone decided that it's a good idea to trample around the flat at two O' clock. So, yeah, I find it a little hard to sleep", John glared at Sherlock who stared back at him with a passive expression.

"Would you go back to sleep if I promised you that I wouldn't make any noise?", Sherlock looked at John with a doubtful almost fearful look in his eyes.

John looked at Sherlock, confused as to where this was getting at. Slowly realization dawned. Sherlock actually wanted him to stay. And he still didn't understand why John was sitting here with a self proclaimed sociopath, while other people would probably have told him to get out of the flat. Really, the man never did anything the straight way. Still, according to him sentiment was a chemical defect. So John responded in a way that Sherlock would understand without entering into sentimental territories.

"Nah. I won't be able to sleep again anyway. Might as well stay here."

A sparkle entered Sherlock's eyes, both relieved and thankful at the same time and John swallowed a smile of his own.

"So, have you always had insomnia? Is that why you don't sleep for days at a time?", John asked, settling down more comfortably.

"I guess so. My brain always demands work. It being superior to normal humans and not having to fulfill the transport's needs", Sherlock explained, his eyes on the ceiling.

John rolled his eyes at the light way in which Sherlock disregarded his body, but asked him,"Have you tried denying your brain the work?"

There was a silence as Sherlock pondered the strange wisdom in John's words. No, he had not tried to force his brain into submission, only his body. The brain always got what it demanded. For a moment Sherlock felt a slight pang of annoyance towards his brain. Silly! He shook his head and replied with a quiet 'no' to John.

Before John could prod further, he quickly interjected, "Haven't you ever had trouble sleeping?", with a curious tilt of his head.

"I used to. But then I started in the army and my "transport", unlike yours, tired after a day's work and I had no trouble falling asleep."

"You used to? What did you do when you couldn't sleep?"

"My mom, she ... well, she used to sing to me. And sometimes Harry too. And my father too, when he wasn't too busy. They didn't ... they sang whatever came to their mind. It didn't have a separate tune or anything. It just felt good that they spent time with me. I remained awake till the end of each song. Each song had it's own memories and they were different than the other. I fell asleep easily after that." John's voice carried with it a hint of melancholy and sadness, but also joy. His eyes were as soft as his tone and glistened suspiciously.

"So, what did you do when you couldn't sleep?", John asked, turning to Sherlock who was watching him with ... longing? As soon as John noticed the look, it disappeared.

"Sleeping pills", he answered, examining his fingernails.

"So that's why you developed a tole ... wait a minute, how long have you had trouble sleeping?"

"Since I was ... six."

"You've ... bloody hell, Sherlock. You know they should be avoided at best."

"What should I have done then, John!", Sherlock exploded.

"Didn't you ... You could have asked your mom or dad, or even your brother. Right?"

"They were always busy."

It was said so mechanically and quietly that John couldn't help but feel something tug at his heartstrings. He had a vision of a wide eyed, curly haired Sherlock padding to his parents for a bed time story only to see them rushing with phone calls and answering mails. They loved him, that was for sure, but they didn't show it. Maybe that was why Sherlock tried to avoid any kind of relationship.

"Close your eyes."

"What? It doesn't ..."

"Just do it, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at John suspiciously before closing his eyes and leaning back against the armrest.

* * *

 _Remember the first day we met?_

 _You asked me for my phone and guessed everything 'bout me._

 _You took me for a run round London's alleys_

 _And cured me of my limp._

 _You brought me to live here_

 _And saved my life too._

 _Then you went after a cabbie_

 _And nearly took a toxic pill._

 _You would be dead, by now_

 _If I hadn't shot him._

 _You should know, though,_

 _That you really are an idiot._

 _Then we went on cases_

 _You were brilliant in each_

 _And we caught a murderer_

 _Before you can say Scotland Yard._

 _Now I'm leading my life with you_

 _Here in 221 B with Mrs. H_

 _Who is not our housekeeper,_

 _And it's the best life I've ever had._

 _So thanks for being my best friend._

* * *

It didn't have a particular tune. It had been clearly written on the flow. It was the best song he had heard.

Sherlock opened his eyes, his vision blurry. A smile played on his lips and on John's. Their eyes mirrored each other's emotions. Gratitude, love, friendship, happiness ...

It was the first time anyone had sang for him. And he had enjoyed it, loved it, treasured it to be stored in the John room of his mind palace.

He opened his mouth to say ... thank you? That was brilliant?

John smiled knowingly.

"Sleep, Sherlock."

And Sherlock did. Because he finally could.

* * *

 _Yeah, I wrote the song. Sorry if it's crap._

 _Hope you enjoyed. Please read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	10. Japanese Encephalitis

_Another chapter. But a short one this time. Expect a sequel. ASAP (hopefully : ))_

 _Thankyou to all the guest and non guest reviewers, followers, faved and readers. You make my day._

 _And another thankyou to Sandra67 for her prompts and ideas. I couldn't have done it without her._

 _Ta,_ _Laila._

* * *

Sherlock was perfectly fine. Of course he was. There was no pounding in his head and his body was not burning up. He was certainly not swaying as he experienced dizziness. He wanted to tell John to get his eyes checked when the doctor remarked on Sherlock being too pale. He was sure that his roiling stomach was a sign of his breakfast digesting and not a sign of it coming backup.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was perfectly fine.

That was Sherlock's last thought before he fell to the ground, unconscious, not aware of John's worried shout or Greg's concerned 'Sherlock'.

* * *

John Watson was a patient man. He tolerated a great many things. He should know, considering that he lived with a stubborn, proud and a git of detective, that patience was something one needed to have in today's world. However for the past three days he was fighting hard to keep his anger and his worry at bay.

Sherlock was ill.

It was as clear as the nose on his face. Why he denied that was beyond John. Yes, he knew that Sherlock was a stubborn arse refusing help in the best of times. But that didn't stop John from mentally cursing the detective when, despite his constant pestering, he insisted on following Lestrade's call to a crime scene.

Sherlock stumbled around the body with as much elegance as Anderson, firing off words at such a low murmur and at such speed, that John and Greg found it more difficult to follow than they usually did. When Sherlock finally stopped against a wall, his face covered with sweat, making his curls stick to his forehead, John was relieved.

That was until he found that Sherlock didn't seem to hear him calling and that he was as white as a sheet and his body heat was felt even from a distance. John noticed all this in the space of a few seconds. His worry was doubled as Sherlock's eyes rolled back before he fell to the ground with a sick thump.

John was instantly in his elements as he fell to his knees beside the unconscious man, wincing at the heat he felt on Sherlock. In a calm voice he ordered Greg to call an ambulance, at the same time taking Sherlock's pulse. Fast, but it was to be expected with a fever this high. John hoped that the emergency services would arrive before Sherlock decided to boil his brilliant brain by seizing.

"Donovan, wet clothes and water. Now!", he snapped at the woman standing helplessly watching. Sally nodded and rushed out to get them. Anderson followed her hurriedly.

John slapped Sherlock's cheek lightly, "Sherlock, can you hear me? Open your eyes. Come on."

There was no response and John cursed again. A cloth was thrust into his vision and he wiped the detective's twitching face with it. "Remove his coat and shoes", he ordered and saw that Greg had taken himself onto the task.

Just then when John was praying for the ambulance to hurry, Sherlock arched his back with a guttural moan and started convulsing.

"Shit!" John raised his head slightly to prevent it from hitting the ground. The convulsions lasted for a few seconds, before they were able to breathe a sigh of relief. At the same time the ambulance arrived and the medics jumped out with a gurney.

Soon Sherlock was loaded onto the back of the ambulance with John seated beside him, holding his head and watching the heart monitor as if it was his lifeline. Which it was.

The vehicle sped off with Lestrade staring at it's disappearing back with concern which was surprisingly shared by Donovan and Anderson.

* * *

It was either the flu or yellow fever, thought John, as he paced impatiently in the waiting room. He knew that he was panicking unreasonably. If Greg was here he would probably push a coffee into his head and push him onto a chair telling him to calm down. But Greg was still at the crime scene and John was left to his own restless mind.

He had been here for at least an hour as the doctors tried to determine Sherlock's condition. He had apparently had another seizure, as John had found out from a nurse, a few minutes after arriving here. The clot.

John looked up at the sound of a door opening and saw the doctor coming towards him. He rushed up to him.

'How is he? Is he alright? What's the matter with him? Will he be alright?'he wanted to ask Dr. Stephen as the badge read. But Dr. Stephen was perceptive and had started speaking before John had asked.

"He'll be alright. He has caught the JEV. Japanese Encephalitis Virus. Fortunately these are just the initial stages and can be treated with time easily. His brain has not undergone any damage or swelling which, although rare, could result in longtime neurological or cognitive disorders. You were right to come here when you did. He will make a quick recovery." With a nod and a friendly pat the doctor motioned him to Sherlock's room before leaving.

John closed his mouth and wiped the shock from his face before walking with a straight back to Sherlock's room.

* * *

Another thing to be noted about Sherlock was that he was always confident and he always appeared larger than life. But John had changed that. At least a little. Because in John's presence and only in his' did Sherlock let go of his fears and insecurities and become just Sherlock and not Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. But John had rarely seen him so ... small. So vulnerable.

Entering the hospital room was one of the Worst experiences that John Watson had had. And he had led troops against Afghanistan.

Sherlock was lying on the uncomfortable hospital bed, hooked up to every machine to monitor his heart, breathing. The doctor had said that with supportive care his friend would make a complete recovery. And John was sure that he was right. But John was ... afraid.

What if Sherlock got worse? What if his brain started swelling? What if they were not able to reduce his fever?

A shuffle from the bed dispersed his thoughts and he leaned forward.

"Sherlock?", he called.

A small groan, a flutter of eyelids and a pair of green blue eyes were revealed. They roved about the room before settling on a familiar sight.

John Watson.

"John? Wha' happen'?", Sherlock rasped, tired eyes fluttering closed before the detective drifted off to sleep once again.

"You caught a bloody virus from India, is what happened, you idiot. Because you had forgotten to get vaccinated. And almost took fifteen years of my life by being hospitalized" John muttered, adjusting the blankets over the detective. He made a mental note to bring a couple of his blankets from Baker Street to replace the papery hospital sheets.

He pulled his chair closer to the bed, and laid his head down on the bed near Sherlock's chest.

"Don't ever do that to me, Sherlock. Never again", John murmured, laying his hand on top of Sherlock's.

* * *

Minutes later when Lestrade came running into the room, it was only to back away quietly at the sight of the detective and his blogger snoring away softly, their hands and hearts linked.

* * *

 _Hope you liked. Please read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	11. Kidnapped (Part 1)

_I am so sorry for the delay, guys. But if it will lessen the murderous glares a little, I had exams and my muse had hardly any space, what with all the formulas and definitions crammed alongside._

 _So this is just the first part and tgetsecond one will be uploaded in a couple of days. It's a work in progress._

 _And please, please read and review. They are the only things that keep me sane and writing._

 _And thankyou for your patience and those who read, reviewed, faved, followed my story._

 _And thankyou to Sandra67 and RoseCentury for your prompts. You rock!_

* * *

Kidnapped (part 1)

John Watson was addicted to danger. He craved it. It was his drug. Which also meant that indirectly Sherlock Holmes was his drug. They got into trouble on a fairly daily basis. They loved the adrenaline rushes. In fact, they had been jailed, hospitalized, kidnapped far too many times for a normal person's liking. They always laughed about it afterward., sure. However their current situation didn't seem in the least bit funny to John.

Tied to a chair which was nailed to the floor with a pounding head watching your best friend in the same situation near you, but unconscious, was not John's idea of fun.

Sherlock was slumped sideways, the rope binding him the only thing keeping him from falling. The left side of his head was covered with dried blood from a head wound, courtesy of their kidnapper who called himself "Hitler" . But what worried John was the huge laceration decorating his right upper arm. The wound looked clearly infected even from a distance. Sweat dripped off the detective's face as the fever raged within his battered body. The rusty twisted knife with which their kidnapper had stabbed Sherlock was showing it's effects.

They had been trapped here for nearly seven hours by John's mental clock. There was no means of contacting Lestrade or anyone in the world outside of the abandoned barn they were prisoners in. Their mobile phones had been smashed and the pieces thrown away. Their only hopes was the mobile of their captor.

A low whimper cut through John's thoughts and he zoned in on Sherlock's face. A frown was present and he twisted his head as if trying to escape an invisible enemy. He shivered violently before stilling with a moan, head lolling uncomfortably onto his shoulder.

John looked around helplessly for something that could help them get free. Not a scratch had he made on John mostly because Sherlock had kept the man distracted with witty and sarcastic comments which served as a hazard in their current situation. Hitler had left them alone after he had stabbed Sherlock, two hours in on his spree of cinematic taunting and threatening to kill marked by the occasional punches to the gut and face, and when that had failed to shut the detective up, knocked him unconscious with a club.

For five hours John had alternatively struggled to free his bonds and had watched the detective as he failed to respond to his calls. He had looked on helplessly with concern as Sherlock's core temperature began to slowly rise as whatever harmful particles present in the knife made its way through Sherlock's blood stream.

"Sherlock", he hissed again, in the hopes that the detective would come back to the real world.

No such luck.

Just then the sound of footsteps reached his ears. The door banged open and John squinted against the sudden light. A familiar face came into sight, the kidnapper's mouth twisted into a smirk.

"Still not awake yet? Wakey time, then", the smirk widened and John could see him making his way out. He came back a few seconds later carrying a pail of water.

"No. No, stop it, please. He's already ill. You'll make him worse", John cried, struggling futilely against the bonds.

"No. He's the one who sent my brother to his death. My brother didn't kill anyone and the freak knew that. So I want him to suffer as much as possible. You watching is just an added advantage. Like I watched my brother slowly being injected with that lethal injection for something he. DID. NOT. DO!", the man screamed, his face red and barely restraining from strangling Sherlock.

He turned away, breathing heavily, and with a grunt, emptied the water over Sherlock's head.

A small cry escaped the detective's lips and he came away awake with a jolt, twisting against the ropes in confusion. His breaths were rapid, his blue green eyes nearly invisible behind his dilated pupils. He shuddered violently, teeth chattering, his eyes darting back and forth before settling on the looming figure of the kidnapper.

"Awake, freak?", Hitler sneered.

"Not ... Freak. Sorry. ... John?", Sherlock murmured, head falling to his chest as another set of shivers shook him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? Look at me, Sherlock Holmes. Look at me", John commanded, using his Captain Watson voice.

"Well, get him to wake up soon, doctor. The fun isn't over", the lunatic snarled.

"Untie me. He's not well. Just allow me to take care of him. Please", John cried in desperation.

"Ha! So that you can make a run for it. I don't think so", the kidnapper made his way back to the door, no doubt to bring in a more torturous method of waking the detective up.

"No. No, I won't try to escape. I promise. Please ... Just ... I have to take care of him", John said, his voice pleading.

"Fine. I hope that you will honour your word, Captain Watson. And I want him awake within the hour", Hitler said, walking back, setting to untie John's knots.

Once his hands were free, John massaged his red, painful wrists. Just as their captor was standing up from his striped position John sent a punch his way.

Only for his fist to stop an inch from the other man's face. For he was looking straight into the barrel of a gun.

"Didn't think I would trust your little lies, did you doctor? But for a moment there I really did believe you, you know. But I have no use for you now. Goodbye.", Hitler's finger tightened on the trigger.

In a flash of desperation John looked past the man's face and schooling his expression into one of surprise, gasped "look!".

Hitler, as it turned out, was not familiar with the old school method if distraction. He whipped his head around, giving John the perfect leeway to wrench the gun from his hand and make a quick, precise shot at the man's thigh. With a scream, Hitler went down, clutching at the bleeding appendage.

John crossed over to him and tied him up tightly before knocking him down with a hard hit to his head.

"Don't you ever touch my friend again, you psychotic bastard", he spat, landing a kick on him just for good measure.

He turned and rushed to the limp detective, falling to his knees beside the occupied chair, the gun falling from nerveless fingers.

"Sher ..." the word was cut by a choke, as tears clouded in the doctor's eyes at the sight of his friend's fragile form.

Watson, get yourself together, he mentally slapped himself and quuckly set about untying his friend's ropes. Gently he laid the limp detective on the floor.

"Sherlock, wake up please. Can you hear me?", he called gently, running a hand through matted curls.

There was no response.

"Sorry, Sherlock", he murmured before he landed a hard slap in his cheek.

With a small cry, Sherlock's eyes flew open. The usually sharp and mischievous eyes were now dull and bloodshot, struggling to focus on their surroundings.

"Sherlock, look at me", John said sharply, directing his gaze towards his'.

"John?", he murmured, frightened orbs gazing into concerned ones.

"Yeah. It's going to be alright, okay. Just stay awake for me."

John closed his eyes for a moment, hoping, praying that Sherlock would be alright.

* * *

 _Hope you liked._

 _Please read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	12. Kidnapped (Part 2)

_As promised, Part 2 of Kidnapped. Hope you enjoy._

 _Thank you to all those wonderful people who read, reviewed, followed and faved my story._

 _Thanks, L_ _uvfictionXxx for the review. I can't send a PM. So, thankyou for the review, you awesome you._

 _Thankyou also to the wonderful Sandra67, Paula. , WeasleyQueen221b for your reviews. You encourage me._

 _And thanks again for the prompts, Sandra and Rose._

* * *

A doctor's work was never easy. There were broken bones, torn ligaments, bloody noses, amputations and even deaths. John knew that. But that had ever stopped him. He wanted to do the best he could to help the injured. But he also knew that doctors weren't allowed to treat close friends or loved ones. And he had just found out why.

Sherlock twisted uncomfortably as John attempted to clean the wound with a cloth dunked in the last remaining water from the pail. He had lapsed back into semi-consciousness after John had gotten him awake. The concussion was worrying John. But it was the infected wound that worried him the most. He shushed the detective again, running gentle fingers through sweat soaked hair. Sherlock calmed his delirious murmurs and lay still, half turning his face towards John.

The dried blood was cleaned off from around the wound and the doctor finally at a good look at it. It wasn't half as bad as it looked but was still too deep for John's liking. What Sherlock needed now was hospital and IVs and bed and warmth. Which reminded John ...

Getting to his feet, he rushed over to the still unconscious Hitler, turning him over unceremoniously and ruffled through his pockets. Ha! There it was! He quickly dialed Scotland Yard.

"Hello. I need Lestrade ... I don't care . Yes. Hello. Hello, Greg. Yes, it's me. No, no ... Oh for God's ... Listen, Lestr ... God! Shut up! We were kidnapped ... Yes, long story. Yeah. We're at some kind of ... barn. No .. no, I don't know. Track our phones or something. That's what the Yard's supposed to do, remember? ... Alright. And bring medical help ... It's Sher ... Sherlock. He's ... bad. He's bad, Greg. Hurry, please... Okay. Hurry."

Dropping the phone, he went to work on Sherlock. He pulled back his hair and looked at the bump on the head. It wasn't too serious. Just a small cut which had stopped bleeding a long time ago. But he most certainly had a concussion. Just when John was thinking of waking his friend again, the detective moaned.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?", John asked, catching Sherlock's flailing hand in his'.

"J'hn. What happ ...", Sherlock croaked, half opened eyes looking at John.

John had to bite back a sob at the sight of the usually confident detective, looking so vulnerable. He forced a smile onto his lips and answered.

"We were kidnapped, Sherlock. The bastard who gave you the concussion and fever is lying, tied up like a sack with a bullet in his thigh. And, he calls himself "Hitler". Put that man to shame, no doubt." John relayed, chuckling slightly at the end.

He was graced with a very small smile from Sherlock which quickly turned into a whimper as he moved his right arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled shakily.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. Just breathe. It's okay. Help'll be here. You'll be alright, understand? But don't go back to sleep." John soothed, squeezing the other's uninjured hand gently.

"Mhmk", was the reply.

"Okay. We gotta get your fever down. And clean your wound. Oh God! I don't have anything to clean it with." He hesitated. "Sherlock. I've got to go out and see if I can get anything. Will you alright on your own?"

Sherlock nodded weakly. "Alright. Don't go to sleep, okay? I'll be back soon."

With a final squeeze, he hurried out the door.

As a soldier, John's first instinct was to check if the coast was clear. Thankfully, it was. Though, to tell the truth, John would have taken on any number of bad guys any day, if it meant that Sherlock's life was on the line. Or if anyone's life was on the line.

Still, he crept carefully along the walls, the gun clutched in his left hand. The barn was surprisingly large, as far as barns usually went.

The corridor ended with the front door. But at the end of it was another door.

John carefully opened the door, the gun held at the ready. But the room turned out to be void of any living beings. It turned out to be a storage room and even had a window, unlike the one where they had been trapped in. John looked out the window. It looked to be nearing evening.

They had been kidnapped when they were lazing around in the flat. It had been about nine in the morning and Mrs. Hudson had gone to her yoga class at eight. Lestrade must have come to give them a new case at around eleven. He obviously hadn't worried when they hadn't been at the flat. But he had grown gradually worried when no one had responded his phone calls. Apparently he had inquired Mrs. Hudson and she had informed him that they hadn't had any plans that she knew of. And that they could just be somewhere peaceful having ... fondue. And that she wouldn't worry much.

And blast the man, he had agreed with her and stopped worrying.

John shook his head and returned to his searching. And stopped. He turned back to the window. There was just green meadows as far as he could see. But on the lane to the right of the barn was a street sign that said 'Cheshire - 18 Miles'.

Quickly turning back to the room, he filled a wheelbarrow with all that would prove helpful and practically flew to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock turned his head at the sound and winced at the sudden cruelty to his head.

John apologized and fell to his knees near the detective, gathering up the mobile.

Swiftly he informed Lestrade of the new found information.

ETA - Half hour.

Finishing the call, he turned back to Sherlock. The detective perceived him through half lidded eyes as John took out his findings from the wheelbarrow.

A roll of duct tape, a bottle of alcohol, spare bullets, four bottles of water, a couple of somewhat clean rags and a cracked bowl.

"Wha' you gonna do?", Sherlock whispered.

"I have to clean your wounds and disinfect them. And I've got to drain the wound on your arm."

"Nngh. Don' wanna." Sherlock moaned, trying to clutch his arm closer.

John looked at him sympathetically. "Hey, I know it's going to hurt, okay. But it's the only way to bring your fever down. It's gonna be alright."

"Trus' you", Sherlock murmured, relaxing his arm.

John smiled at him. "It'll be alright."

He poured some water into the bowl and cleaned it thoroughly before dumping it and pouring some more water into the now clean bowl. He dipped a piece of cloth into it and slowly cleaned the blood from the head wound. Despite him being extra gentle, Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Soon the blood was cleared up and John bound it snugly but firmly with a fresh cloth.

Now came the hard part. The disinfection. The laceration had to be cleaned. And even if there were drugs to render Sherlock unconscious, John wouldn't have risked it because of the concussion. So conclusion, it had to be cleaned with Sherlock awake. With the alcohol. Apparently the kidnapper liked Whiskey.

John knew it had to be done, but it didn't make it any easier.

He smoothed the curls back. Sherlock looked at him with glossy eyes. Words weren't exchanged, but Sherlock knew.

"Jus' do it",he slurred, shivering a little.

"I'm sorry. I'll be as gentle as I can, okay?", John said sadly.

There was no reply. John sighed and began.

As softly as he could he wet the cloth again and wiped the wound and surrounding surface again. Then with a deep breath, he poured some of the whiskey on the cloth and dabbed it gently on the wound. Sherlock drew in a shuddery breath and whimpered slightly. Murmuring soothingly, John tried to speed up the process. He pressed a little more, being careful to remove any remaining dirt or potentially hazardous things. Sherlock moaned a little louder, tears escaping his clenched eyes.

"Almost over, Sherlock. Hang on."

With a slight pinch to check if the blood had clotted, he cleaned it once more with water before wrapping it with a makeshift bandage. By the time he had finished, Sherlock was pale as a sheet and beads of sweat rolled off his forehead.

John sighed sadly and wiped the sweat with a cool cloth, leading to Sherlock opening bloodshot eyes.

"It's over.' John whispered gently. He lifted the detective's head slightly and helped the man gulp down some water with gentle chidings of 'slowly, you git'. He wet the cloth and wiped Sherlock's face and neck with it, doing the little he could to bring down the fever. He needed rest. But sleep was not recommended at least until he had been checked over at the hospital.

Speaking of ... Sirens, the crunch of gravel under wheels and could it be ... yes, a chopper.

John looked with relief at Sherlock who had the energy to crank up a smile.

Barely relaxing his smirk, he croaked, "And there's Scotland Yard to the rescue, as always."

And when the cops and medics led by Lestrade flocked into the room, it was to the sight of a worse for wear Sherlock Holmes grinning weakly and a relieved John Watson giggling, half bent over Sherlock.

And if anybody noticed John's hand carding through Sherlock's hair, later on the ambulance, they made no mention of it.

* * *

 _Hope you liked._

 _Don't forget to read and review._

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._


	13. LSD

It's been a looooooong time. Forgive me, I had things going on. I've joined college and don't know how often I'll be able to update, so bear with me. I'll try my best. Because of you the readers and because duh! fanfiction and duh! Sherlock.

This is the longest chapter yet, so enjoy. It's my gift to make up for my absence.

This chapter concentrates on LSD. And though I've done my research, there will be mistakes. So, sorry for that. Point out inaccuracies if you find any.

Read and let me know what you think!

And thanks for the reads, reviews, favs and follows!

Ta,

Laila.

* * *

Sherlock flipped through the book, his mind not really concentrating on the words. He was rather busy waiting. Waiting for John to fall asleep.

A creak from the floor above and Sherlock smiled to himself. That was John getting into bed. He had had an exhausting day at work so he was more likely to fall asleep within the next four and a half minutes, Sherlock calculated. The shower he had taken after dislodging Sherlock from the empty bath tub, and mind palace, Sherlock added to himself with slight annoyance, probably would send him off early to the dreamland.

Now, Sherlock was not the type of person who wanted others to sleep. He actually preferred them awake. Now John for instance, no matter how slow he could be, proved to be a good listener and even interjected some opinions of his own. Even though they eventually turned out to be rather stupid.

But today, there was a reason. An experiment that he couldn't do with John breathing down his neck. So solution : get rid of John. And so he had waited patiently till he had come back from work and finished his bath, fussed about dinner and finally gone to bed. All without John getting even a whiff of the inner storm raging within Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't even know how he had struck this pot of gold. He had come across one of his homeless network using it or at least about to, before Sherlock had snatched it away from him. He had told the boy that it was quite dangerous and he was too young to be using one of the most strongest hallucinogens. And all the time a voice which sounded suspiciously like John resounded in his head, snarling words like 'hypocrite' and 'you're one to talk' and 'don't you dare'.

Of course, he had ignored it. Simply because he was Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Now he jumped up from his chair in which he had been fidgeting in for the past three hours and twenty six minutes. He retrieved the small ziploc bag from where he had stuffed it under the microscope and scrutinized the tiny things sitting innocently within.

Surprisingly, LSD had never been a drug he had ever wanted to try. Hallucinations were always present in his head without something triggering them, thank you very much. He sought drugs only to escape his mind and sometimes to enhance it.

Mostly to escape.

He knew that he'd get in trouble if John ever found out about this. He had meticulously gone over the details of his plan. Which wasn't much. Just shutting himself in his room and turning up the volume of a recording of some of his violin compositions.

Because sometimes John was surprisingly observant, especially when it came to Sherlock. The detective had gone to bed just last night. So John would certainly get suspicious if he woke in the middle of the night to a silent flat.

He just hoped that he wouldn't barge into his room and ask him to stop playing the violin.

He closed the bedroom door and turned the volume up on the recording. He crossed to his bed and sat, the packet held tightly in his hand. He emptied the packet and popped two pills onto his tongue. He knew that it probably was a bit much for his first time, but the thought left his head as soon as it had come. He was experienced with other drugs after all.

* * *

Sherlock let go of the curtains and turned back to face his room. He sighed and looked at his watch. It had been 37 minutes and the research on Google had told him that it would start taking effect at half an hour.

He sighed again and collapsed onto the bed. He surveyed the ceiling and was starting to wonder if the pills wouldn't work at all when he noticed the difference. In the ceiling, that is.

What was usually a creme coloured ceiling now looked a little bright. A kind of yellow tint. Lemon yellow. And ... was it closer than usual?

With a muffled yelp he rolled out of the bed with a thud and sheltered his head to protect his head as the ceiling suddenly crashed down. When there was no sound, he slowly looked up to find it intact.

Then he remembered the thing he had swallowed. It must have been an effect of the drug. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he rubbed his eyes.

Ruffling his hair, he stood up slowly on numb limbs, must have been the shock at the "falling ceiling", and sat on the bed. He smiled when the walls started rippling. This was more unbelievable. The more unbelievable it was, the easier it would be to stay sane.

He flopped onto his back just as a shadow stepped out from a corner of the room. He jerked up and scrambled backwards so quickly that he banged into the headboard. There was a small part, the reasonable, rational part of his mind that told him that it was all an effect of the drug.

But the irrational, human part of him shivered as Moriarty stepped into view.

 _Not real. You are not real. Dead. You are DEAD!_

Sherlock could feel his breath speeding up, could feel his heart pounding, could feel the cold sweat breaking out. He had no weapon. Moriarty had come for him again. Had come for John. Because he couldn't protect him.

With a leer Moriarty walked towards him and Sherlock sidled up to the edge of the bed before falling with a thud for the second time in the last few minutes.

 _Hi. Did you miss me?_

"Stay away. Stay ... John! Have to get ... You're not real!" Sherlock cried, getting to his knees, hands trembling. There was something wrong with the drug. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be just weird colors and shapes and distortions.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. His door. The bedroom door.

 _John! Thank God!_

But suddenly Moriarty grinned and slowly, as if deliberately tantalising Sherlock, ran a finger over the barrel of the gun that had suddenly appeared in his left hand. Sherlock stilled.

As one both the detective and the nemesis leapt towards the door.

 _John! NO!_

Jim Moriarty threw open the door and revealed the confused John standing outside, hand just poised where the doorknob would be. With a grin Moriarty raised the gun.

"Sherlock, what are yo ... " John started before being bowled over by Sherlock pouncing on him.

They went down in a crash of joints and elbows. Sherlock pinned John to the floor, while looking back at the doorway, the echo of a gunshot reverberating through his head.

There was no one. Moriarty had disappeared again.

With a sigh of shaky relief he turned back to the doctor trapped uncomfortably under him. "Are you ... alright? Hurt ... no." He ran his hand over John's torso and head, searching for any signs of injury or even a slight scratch. When he found none, he collapsed bonelessly back and squeezed his eyes shut.

John for the most part, remained silent as his doctor's instinct had kicked in the moment Sherlock jumped on him. He had been shocked at first, what with a lanky detective bowling him over at midnight when he had just come down for a midnight snack.

And stopped midway when he had heard a crash in his flatmate's bedroom. Normally that wouldn't surprise him at all, but this time the mutterings from within, had. So he had knocked on the door once and opened it.

And now they were here.

Sherlock had been sweating and shaking, pupils dilated, fear coming off him in waves. So he had let Sherlock search him for wounds while all the while casting fearful glances towards the door.

Nightmares, John concluded. And he would have stopped analysing there if Sherlock hadn't just collapsed heavily on top of him. And now John could feel the alarming warmth on Sherlock's face which now rested on his neck.

He frowned to himself. Sherlock had been just fine when John had gone upstairs to bed. But then one never could tell with Sherlock. He was a master at pretending, especially when it came to his "transport".

Gently he pushed the detective off his chest and onto his back on the floor, cushioning his head. He ran his hand through Sherlock's hair soothingly and at the same time checking him for lumps that could mean concussions. Just in case that crash _had_ been something serious.

"Sherlock?" He whispered softly, hoping that he would open his eyes and give an explanation on what the hell was going on.

Sherlock's eyes remained shut. John placed the back of his palm on the detective's forehead. Definitely a fever, he surmised.

Just as he was about to try to talk to Sherlock, his eyes opened slowly, tentatively. As his eyes caught John's questioning ones, they remained there staring. He blinked once, twice and suddenly his breath hitched and before John could ask what the matter was, Sherlock once again grabbed him, this time his shoulders, and looked over him.

And this time, John reacted.

With a gentle but firm grasp he prised the grip off his shoulders and took Sherlock's cold hands in his'.

"Look at me, Sherlock. Look at me!" When Sherlock's eyes flickered back and forth without settling on one spot, he grasped his face between his hands and said firmly, in his best Captain Watson voice, "Sherlock, look at me! At m ... good, that's good. Now tell me what happened."

Sherlock's eyes fixed on John's, fear and guilt glistening in them.

"He's back! Jo ..." he choked, before gulping and resuming in a shaking voice, "Moriarty! He's back!"

John stared at him, mouth slightly open before he shook his head. "No Sherlock, he's not here. He died, remember?" He shoved back the sudden coldness that had gripped his heart when he heard Sherlock utter _his_ name.

Sherlock struggled to sit up and John let him, a hand at his back, gently supporting him. The detective cast a glance at his bedroom before returning his gaze to John.

"He was there, John. I swear! He had ... he had a gun and I swear that he was about to ... shoot you. And I couldn't ... I tried, but he had a gun and the ceiling was ... " Sherlock rambled on, his breaths coming in faster and faster.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, calm ... Hey, it's alright. It's ... breathe, Sherlock. In. Out. Breathe, sherlock. It's okay." John soothed, stilling Sherlock's ramblings by rubbing his back. He didn't know what had happened, but he vowed to find out soon. There was all kinds of possibilities. It could have been nightmares, like John had first thought, but the fever indicated otherwise. Maybe he had fallen sick in the one hour John had last seen him. There was also the possibility that someone had slipped him a drug or somet ...

John stilled. He took in the visage of the pale, shaking detective again and mentally slapped himself. Drugs! Of course, it was drugs! He quelled his rising anger and let out a long breath.

He tilted Sherlock's chin and caught his eyes. Then very clearly, he enunciated "Did you take any drugs?"

He watched as first confusion then guilt pass across his face. John closed his eyes as anger threatened to overwhelm him again, as he looked at Sherlock's downcast gaze.

"Sherlock, what did you take?" He asked, one hand rubbing at his forehead, his eyes, before finally running a hand through his hair.

When no answer was forthcoming, John opened his eyes only to find the other man staring into the distance somewhere behind John. If this had been some other time, John would have concluded that Sherlock had gone to his mind palace or just plain ignoring the doctor. But this was not some other time and not a normal Sherlock moment either.

John knew that Sherlock was probably hallucinating something, but that didn't stop him from looking over his shoulder. He turned back to Sherlock and found that the detective was still staring, eyes fixed and breathing quicker than ever. Whatever Sherlock was seeing was a bit not good.

He stood up slowly in case it alarmed Sherlock, bringing Sherlock up with him. Then with a littanny of soothing nonsensical words, managed to shift his focus onto John.

"Sherlock, whatever you are seeing, it is not real? You understand me? It is not real. You are hallucinating." John said in a soft but firm voice. Sherlock seemed not to hear him, but was alternating between watching John and whatever he was seeing behind him. Suddenly Sherlock's eyes stayed on his hallucination, the look changing to absolute horror, fear, guilt and such _overwhelming, heart shredding_ sadness that John took a step back and cast another glance behind him.

"Sherl ... " John started, then lunged forward as Sherlock collapsed. Sherlock thudded to his knees and John was alarmed as he caught sight of tears.

Sherlock was _crying!_ Sherlock Holmes! The self proclaimed sociopath for whom sentiment was just a fly in the ointment, the grit in the lens.

"Hey, hey, Sherlock. Sshh. It's ... You're ... " John trailed off. The person before him was not the Sherlock he knew. But maybe it was the Sherlock he should have seen, that they all should have seen. The true, loving person that he hid behind the egoistical mask. The person before him was broken. Sherlock was gasping, shaking, tears streaming from his tightly shut eyes, down his face, and landing on the red carpet beneath, and turning it crimson. He refused to look up, keeping his head down as if he would never find the strength to raise it again. Hopeless and desolate.

John acted. He wrapped his arms around the shaking, cold, pale figure and held on. Sherlock made no move to hug him back. Just sat there limply, tears now wetting John's dressing gown.

John wasn't sure if Sherlock even realized that he was here.

"Sherlock. Can you hear me? You with me?" John asked, voice shaking a bit as he blinked back tears of his own.

No response.

John rose up and with gentle hands, again coaxed Sherlock to his feet and managed to direct the detective in the direction of his bedroom. After many stumbles and near falls, they managed to reach the bedroom and John gently pushed Sherlock to lie down on his bed.

With gentle hugs and murmurs of nonsense, which if Sherlock had been coherent enough he would have called "utter stupidity", the detective was unsocked and tucked under a blanket.

The moment his head hit the pillow, Sherlock was out like a light.

John sighed and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. He buried his face in his hands, gripping his hair tightly and pulling. He opened his eyes and blinked back the spots from rubbing his eyes too hard.

He looked up and let his eyes rove around the place. Sherlock's place was immaculate compared to the way he maintained the living room. There was a framed periodic table near the door. The slightly open closet door revealed drab, yet neatly hung clothes. The bed was made, probably by Mrs. Hudson seeing that Sherlock never did menial job, and the floor was clean too. Without the pile of newspapers, books, dust and general junk that Sherlock usually rolled in.

John's eyes shifted to the bedside table. The detective's mobile and a book lay carelessly on top. The half open drawer revealed an array of tools that John preferred not knowing. Just then his eyes fell on something else. The doctor frowned and reached for the packet that lay innocently on the tabletop.

The packet did _not_ look like it had come from a drug store. "LSD" was scribbled with a markie in a dirty scrawl. And John realised that Sherlock had taken acid, which he had bought from some street druggie or one of his homeless people, had overdosed and was experiencing a bad acid trip.

John was going to have words tomorrow.

* * *

John checked Sherlock's temperature again and was pleased to find it lower than it had been two hours ago. He wet the face cloth again and wiped the detective's placid face and pale neck one last time.

He had debated just leaving the detective to grow out of the drug's effects. But the doctor, and more so the friend in him, had won that conversation and he had spent the last couple of hours cooling the fevered detective down.

And occasionally soothing away the nightmares.

John did not know what was worse. Seeing the fear immobilise Sherlock that he was reduced to shivers and tears or to see him writhing on the bed, plagued by nightmares so horrible that he would scream or beg or whimper. And it just tore John's heart that nothing he did would make it okay.

It would always start with the twitching and the tensing. Then the whimpers and the murmurs and the pleads. John tried to soothe Sherlock. He really did. Sometimes it worked and the detective went back to a restless sleep.

But other times, no matter how many times John whispered that it was alright, that it wasn't real, Sherlock did not respond. He would wake up screaming.

One time John had tried to soothe him with a hug and had nearly gotten a black eye as a result.

He'd actually considered calling Mycroft, but his phone was in the living room and he didn't want to risk getting up.

Leaving Sherlock alone, it seemed, was never a good idea.

* * *

Sunlight streamed inside the unusually quiet bedroom of 221 B, Baker street. Sherlock's brows furrowed as he speculated the silence. He opened his eyes and squeezed them shut at the sudden light attacking his tender eyes.

He groaned and turned to his right. Blinking sluggishly, he opened his eyes gingerly and nearly jumped out of his skin. 2 inches from his nose was a familiar mass of brown hair. Sherlock frowned. _What was John doing in his bedroom? Was he drunk?_

John's position was not entirely too comfortable. He had apparently dragged in his chair from the living room, had slid down until he was half slumped in the chair and then flopped his upper body onto Sherlock's bed. One arm lay on Sherlock's knee and the other near his chest.

Sherlock blinked. Then blinked again. _What wa ..._

"Wha ... 'm 'wake" John sprang upright, hair tousled and sheet creases on his cheek. He squinted at the blurry view of the room before zoning in on the other occupant.

Sherlock was looking at him curiously, amusement in his eyes.

"Sherlock! Are you ... How do you feel?" John asked, hands automatically flying to Sherlock's forehead. The fever had broken. Thank Goodness.

Sherlock pushed himself up and slid back to lean against the headboard.

"I am perfectly fine. Why are you in my bedroom?" He asked, quirking his eyebrows.

John stared at him in disbelief. "You ... What? Why am I in ... Are you bloody kidding me?!" John near shouted, fists clenched white on the sheet.

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow at him, smirk widening into that all too familiar 'Sherlock' way.

And John lost it.

* * *

In hindsight, slapping Sherlock Holmes (though hard enough to leave a welt) hadn't been a good idea, let alone much less satisfactory than punching him. But it brought back memories of John being on the receiving end of many such slaps from his many ex-girlfriends.

And the reason for them being his ex was lying on the couch, pressing a pack of cold peas to his cheek and glaring daggers at him. Which John found no trouble in mirroring.

"So ..." John started, arms crossed as he sat on the coffee table.

"Oh, for God's sake, John, I said I'm sorry!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Well, tough, 'cause sorry doesn't cut it!"

"Well, what would you like me to do, then? I don't know what to say!"

"You could start by promising not to take drugs again." John said quietly.

Silence fell. Sherlock examined his nails with interest. "Acid isn't _really_..."

John cut him off. "Yes, it is. It is a drug, Sherlock, and a really bit not good one at that."

Silence fell again.

"God, you should have seen yourself, mate. It was ... You were crying! It was horrible. And I didn't know what to do. I am so sorry. And I never want to see you like that again." John gasped out, eyes piercing as they stared into Sherlock's.

Sherlock's gaze flickered down and he shook his head slightly. "You shouldn't be. Sorry, I mean. I don't remember much, but the little I do ... makes me never want to take LSD again. So maybe you don't need that promise, after all."

"Oh, I need it, mate. You are a clot who finds loopholes in every promise. And if there isn't one ..."

"I swear."

John stopped short and stared at the detective. A smile broke out and he nodded at the apology and the promise rolled into one.

* * *

Later that night, with crap telly and Indian takeaway, everything was almost the same.

And yet, something was still nagging John.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm"

"When you ... broke down, what were you seeing? You said that Moriarty was there ... " He felt Sherlock shudder at the name or perhaps the memory of the hallucination.

"I saw you getting shot and killed by him." Sherlock said shortly, voice devoid of emotion.

John snapped towards his friend. "That was ... That's what made you so ... broken?" He asked, voice stuttering.

Sherlock said nothing, eyes fixed on the screen, and the doctor knew that the conversation was over.

He turned back to the dull reality show that was droning on. It had hurt John to see his friend look so damaged last night and he never, ever wanted to see such a barrage of emotions cross his friend's eyes ever again.

But something in John's heart was warmed at the thought of the detective grieving at John's demise.

Maybe he wasn't the only one who would not, _could not_ , live without his friend.

With a smile, he zoned in just as the people laughed at a joke someone had made.

* * *

 _Read and review!_


	14. Mono

_Hey, guys. I'm in college, living in a paying guest house nearby. I miss my family._

 _So, I thought I would distract myself by finishing my next chapter. It's short and lighthearted, a stark opposite to my last chapter._

 _Thank you to all the people who read, reviewed, followed and favorited my story. Do the same again ; D_

 _And to Nuttyprincess who reviewed : Thank you for your lovely words and for your suggestions. I know I didn't follow it, but I'll try your 'n' prompt. But I would love to get more prompts._

 _To all of you, happy reading! Review after you read!_

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._

* * *

He'd thought it was a case of the sniffles. He really had. Sure his temperature had been up a bit and he actually admitted to being tired. He had even reached the conclusion that it was a mild case of flu.

And now he couldn't stop laughing at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, sitting red nosed, rosy cheeked, hoarse throated and glaring. With an acute case of mono.

"Really, John!" Sherlock sniffed, taking a sip of tea. He was wrapped up like a burrito, having just come back from a visit to the doctor (only after John threatened that he would take away his violin, of course). John had tried to control his giggles ever since the doctor's verdict and on the cab ride home. But now, looking at Sherlock's childish posture and his not-very-childlike reason as to why he had contracted mono ... well, John was only human after all.

Apparently, so was Sherlock. Who knew!

"Sor ... I'm sorry. Sorry." John gasped in between bouts of laughter. He wiped his eyes, trying to rid his eyes of moisture.

God, no one made him laugh as much as Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Or despair.

* * *

 _33 hours earlier ..._

"Is this really necessary, John?" Sherlock asked, impatience shining in his eyes as he took in the disgusting atmosphere. They were at The Rolling Barrel, after a long chase after a petty thief which had ended in two broken noses. One of which belonged to said thief after he tripped over his own feet and smashed on the pavement (they'd had a good laugh at that). The other one was Anderson's, after John punched him for calling Sherlock a freak who couldn't catch a thief unless he fell down at his feet.

"Come on, we've been running around all day! Let's have some fun!" John shouted over the atrociously loud music blasting across the disco lit floor.

Sherlock sighed. The detective just couldn't see the point in drinking and dancing and mating with strangers. But it was what John wanted to do now and he would have to put up with it, keep the doctor in control else he brought some girl to their flat. Sherlock would see that they both got home after having a couple of shots.

* * *

 _23 minutes later ..._

" ... and that ... man 's what stayed wi' me after they call me f'eak. He told ... told me that I was 'mazing! I knew that 'course, but he told me ... anyway. There he is ... John! JOHN! JOHN WATSON!"

John, however, was preoccupied in the middle of the dance floor with some brunette and a glass of gin, his eighteenth that night. The gin, that is, not the girl.

Sherlock shrugged and turned to the girl beside him who was making heart eyes at him. He couldn't remember her name, but then, why would he? He wasn't here to ...

He lost his train of thought as the girl flung herself at him, lips crashing against his'. He felt confused as to why she kissed him while he was in the process of how he had met his friend. The girl ran her hands over his chest, nipping at his lower lip. He winced and tried to pull back. Unfortunately the bar stool had no back and he went crashing down.

Surprisingly, the glass of margarita in his hand (his eighth, ninth?) was still full, not a drop spilt in his fall. He took in the concerned faces looking down at him. Then at the glass at his hand.

He grinned, raised his glass to the crowd and gulped down the drink in one.

"Sherlock! Wha' you doin' on the floor?" John had joined the mass of floating faces above.

"JOHN!" Sherlock gave a toothy grin and took the hand John extended down to him. Then held up a finger and promptly threw up all over John's new girlfriend.

* * *

 _Present time ..._

"You were drunk at the time, too!"

"So?"

"Why didn't you catch it too?"

John stared incredulously.

"You caught it because the woman you kissed had mono! I didn't even kiss the girl I was with, no thanks to you!"

"What did I do?" Sherlock defended himself, with what he thought was perfectly logical reasoning.

John controlled the urge to throw something at his friend. The only thing stopping him was his deep speculation on whether Sherlock really did not know or whether he was pretending.

John felt that it was the latter option.

"You bloody threw up on my would-have-been girlfriend, you inebriated prick!", he nearly shouted.

"That was beyond my control. I was very inebriated, as you so kindly pointed out. And anyway, it is basically and wholly your own fault." Sherlock concluded firmly, a little bit of smugness entering into his voice. He tried to gaze lazily out the window, but failed miserably. Instead he chose to watch John splutter in indignation.

"How ... How the hell is that _my fault_?" John asked, eyes flashing with annoyance and confusion.

"You were the one who dragged me to the pub, John! And you were the one who forced that drink on me. Remember, you said that if I didn't have fun you would ban my experiments? Ring any bells?" Sherlock drawled, enjoying the flitting emotions across the doctor's face.

A few dramatic seconds passed in which John sat there, blinking, and Sherlock with a quickly waning interest as he started to fidget.

"Okay, fine! It's my fault. I'm sorry. Won't be taking you to pubs anymore". The last was said in a near murmur.

But Sherlock heard it anyway.

He looked at his hands, as if just figuring out that they were his'. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"I did enjoy it." He said in such a low voice that John almost missed it.

"What?" John asked, not sure that he had heard him right.

"I said, I did enjoy it, John." Sherlock said loudly, irritation at admitting out loud his 'sentiment' shining through his eyes.

John just smiled, muttering 'git' beneath his breath. But he was sure that Sherlock had heard and had hidden a smile.

* * *

Two hours later, John was doing anything but smiling.

"Would you like to slobber all over the bed and the couch, then?"

"I don't slobber, John. Get that spoon out of my face!"

"It's not in your face. It's in my hand."

"Get what's in your hand out of my face."

John sighed, not wavering. The medicine was starting to drip down the spoon.

A glint came to his eyes. Sherlock seemed a little wary. That glint spelled no good.

"Fine, don't take your medicine. But you won't get that box of little heart cookies you like so much." John screwed the bottle up and made to place it on the bedside table.

It was snatched rudely from his hand and Sherlock quickly chugged a gulp down and slapped it onto John's waiting palm.

John grinned.

Sherlock scowled.

* * *

John knew that living with Sherlock would be an everyday disaster to him. But he preferred that. He enjoyed the rush and the adrenaline that coursed through his veins during a chase.

But sometimes, _sometimes,_ he loved this too. There was a gentle calm as the fire crackled and a nearly healed Sherlock curled up on the couch with John's blanket. His eyes were lit by the fire, green-blue tinted with fiery red. John read an old medical journal, thinking about his adventures. Both then and now.

Life was good.


	15. Nightmares

_I'm so sorry for the delay, lovelies! But you know college._

 _I would also love some prompts, if you have any._

 _Thank you to all the readers, reviewers, favouriters and followers. I love y'all. You keep me writing._

 _Btw, I'm on Twitter. Yay! It's the same username. Laila Space. You know, if you wanna follow me or anything ;) You should all tell me your account names too, if you use Twitter. I'm looking for cool people to follow and you guys certainly are cool!_

 _Anyway, review people!_

 _Ta,_

 _Laila._

* * *

"The case was stupid, John. There was no point in travelling all the way to the other side of London" an exasperated Sherlock threw his coat onto the table, flopping down dramatically on the couch.

John followed more slowly, rolling his eyes, hanging his coat on the back of the door. He grabbed Sherlock's coat and hung it nearby his'.

"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. I-need-a-case-but-like-nothing-that-comes-up. At least you weren't destroying destroying the flat in search of cigarettes." He walked to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. He gulped it down, sighing as his thirst was quenched.

"That reminds me, John. I want some." Sherlock turned towards John who had plopped down in his armchair.

"Cold turkey, Sherlock. It's been eight months and nine days. Keep up the good work." John answered from where he had opened up the book he was perusing.

"But I'm bored." Sherlock pouted.

No answer.

"JOHN!" Sherlock whined.

John barely contained his smile as he wondered how Sherlock even managed to sound such a child at times.

"Cluedo!" Sherlock said, enthusiastically sitting up.

John looked up incredulously. He glared at the detective and went back to his book.

Sherlock scowled at the doctor who had ignored him blatantly when he was going through such a hard time.

He leaped up from the couch. Stepping up on the table instead of going around sensibly around it, Sherlock walked over to John.

John looked up in surprise. He shook his head. "One of these days, that table is go ..."

Sherlock snatched the novel out of the doctor's hands and leered at him, placing the book on the topmost shelf. John stopped his chiding abruptly and blushed furiously, looking up at where Sherlock had placed the book.

He would, obviously, never be able to reach it.

Sherlock grinned. John sighed.

* * *

"Why is there a colonel called mustard? I don't like mustard, John!" Sherlock glared at the token in his hand.

"Well, it wasn't made for you to like it. It was supposed to entertain lower minds like us ordinary people. If you don't like it, just name it something else." John frowned again at the instruction pamphlet.

"Colonel Hamish" Sherlock muttered innocently, a smirk teasing the edge of his lips. John's head snapped up and he whacked Sherlock's tangled curls. The paper was too thin and Sherlock didn't even make a move to get out of the way. He just sat there giggling like a very pleased child. And honestly, John didn't think there was a difference.

"Okay, anyway!" With a final glare, john continued, "We have to roll the dice to decide who decides to go first."

Sherlock nodded, a slinky smile still on his face.

John looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock looked back at him, now confused.

"Well? Go on, roll it." He urged the detective.

"Yeah, where is it?" Sherlock asked, looking around at the various things strewn about on John's bed where they were playing. Playing, they said.

"It's right in your hand, Mr Detective" John nodded to where he was fiddling with the tiny white cube with black dots.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to blush. But he rallied back efficiently.

"Ah yes, here it is. Must have deleted it." Sherlock dropped it awkwardly on the bed, avoiding John's suspicious eyes.

"... Sherlock? You didn't know what 'dice' was, did you?" John was steadily turning purple, his shoulders shaking suspiciously.

Sherlock busily scrutinized the numbers that the dice displayed.

John snorted and within seconds he was rolling around on the bed, tears making their way through his red cheeks. Sherlock looked at him with the most disgruntled expression on his face.

John tried to choke words between his mirth like "case" and "detec" and "sorry". Sherlock reached out and with a rough shove, pushed John out of the bed. There was a thud and another snort.

When there was no John reappearing, Sherlock leaned over the edge. John was lying limply on the floor, still shaking with laughter, though it was silent this time.

"John, the harder you laugh, the more your laugh goes unheard by human beings. Only dogs will hear you now." Sherlock remarked dryly.

John sat up with difficulty, drying his tears.

"Oh you silly man! But I needed that! What the hell would you have done if this had come up on a case, you git?!" John asked, pulling himself onto the bed.

"Hmph! Like this could be relevant enough to come up in a case!" Sherlock scoffed, watching John roll the dice in the proper way.

"Yeah ... that's what you thought about the solar system"

This time, John knew that he deserved the pillow to the head.

* * *

John woke with a start, half getting up. He was lying on his front, a piece of paper was sticking to his face and some plastic pieces were digging uncomfortably into his hip. He looked around the room, taking a moment to realize that it was his bedroom.

They had played well into the night, taking a break only to gather the take-out they had ordered for dinner. He must have fallen asleep during the game itself.

A soft grunt sounded and John realized that, apparently, Sherlock had too. John mentally groaned about the rumours and another further week of denying that he wasn't gay whenever they went to the Yard.

He suddenly became aware of his uncomfortable position. He had half in, half out of the bed. His left arm was numbed from hanging limply out of the bed and his left leg was still planted firmly onto the floor.

Sherlock, of course, must be hoarding the entire bed.

With a groan, he managed to drag his heavy limbs from the bed. He was about to go sleep in Sherlock's room, God knew that the detective needed uninterrupted sleep. The last time he had had a full night's sleep was two days ago.

Suddenly another groan sounded. John paused, his hand on the doorknob. He switched his bedside lamp. The sudden glow threw the lump of a detective into stark focus.

And it was a lump. Sherlock hadn't hoarded the bed as John had assumed. He was curled up like a kitten.

His eyeballs were flitting back and forth behind his lids. He let out another groan, this time louder.

John sat on the bed and laid a gentle hand on Sherlock's brow to check him for fever. Fevers always led to nightmares for Sherlock.

But he wasn't warm. At least that was a consolation.

"Sherlock." John whispered softly. As he had expected, Sherlock did not rouse.

Sherlock's hand flailed once, as if pushing off something and the detective curled into a tighter ball. A pitiful whine tore out of his lips.

"Sherlock!" John shook his shoulder. "Hey, wake up mate! You're dreaming!"

John ran his hand through Sherlock's sweat soaked curls and to his surprise, the detective calmed down almost instantly. John continued to calm Sherlock down until he was certain that the younger man had fallen into a peaceful sleep.

He was about to leave again, after covering Sherlock with the duvet, when Sherlock tossed in his sleep and moaned.

John was beside him in a flash.

"I'm here, it's okay. Ssshh!" He murmured. He bent towards the table and clicked off the light, never taking his hands off Sherlock's hair.

He threw the duvet over both of them this time, rumours be damned. He rubbed Sherlock's back as a whimper, very low, cut through the air.

To his surprise, Sherlock turned towards him and plastered himself on John. He sighed gently in his sleep and John was abruptly reminded of how young Sherlock really was. The detective's breath ticked his neck, the shuddery intakes now more calm.

John's heart surged with a sudden protectiveness and he remembered again why he had stayed with Sherlock. And he didn't mean just tonight.

Because beneath the hard walls he had built for himself, there was a child, lost, who had yearned for nothing more than friendship all these years.

* * *

The sunlight streaming in the windows was what woke John this time. He looked down to see that Sherlock was still asleep, his face half hidden in John's jumper, head moving up and down with each breath that John took.

One arm was on the pillow and the other was near his head, loosely clutching John's jumper. John used his arm as a pillow, which was now numb beyond belief, and the other was wrapped around Sherlock.

The doctor coloured slightly as he wondered at the picture they presented. At least there would be no witnesses. If only he could get Sherlock to keep his mouth shut. The detective never meant to reveal such things, but he couldn't really understand personal boundaries anyway.

A throat cleared above him.

John froze and looked up at the upside down face of a particular DI grinning down at him.

"Let myself in with the extra keys you gave me. Now I'm regretting it. Looks like you boys had a fun night. I'll leave you to gather yourselves. Meet me later at the Yard ... if you feel up to it." Lestrade threw a smirk at him and walked out of the room.

John thought he vaguely heard a snicker coming out of the adjoining room.

This was going to be so awesome. John let his head thunk back into his arm and sighed.

* * *

 _Hope you liked! Too less of H/C, I know. But there's fluff. Hopefully it WAS fluffy. lol._

 _Don't forget to review. Or no more updates._

 _Ha ha! Just kidding!_

 _... but am I XD_

 _REVIEW PLEASE!_


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